


Pistols at Dawn

by queenofchildren



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Belligerent Sexual Tension, F/M, General Badassness, Inspirational Speeches, Intrigue, M/M, Political Campaigns, Romance, cover-up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 04:33:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 69,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3314105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofchildren/pseuds/queenofchildren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy Blake's political star is on the rise, until his opponents throw some dirt that sticks. So he calls in an expert: Clarke Griffin, professional crisis manager, has helped many a powerful person weather outrageous scandals with her team.<br/>But Clarke has no idea that saving Bellamy Blake will unearth secrets that should have stayed buried – and change both their lives forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loosely inspired by Scandal, but not following the show's plotlines (as far as I know), and the characters don't take up the exact same roles. I just had to write a fic with Bellamy as a charismatic politician with working-class roots and Clarke as the workaholic crisis manager who saves his career.

“Bellamy Blake wants to reform the prison system – is he speaking from experience?” _Slap!_ “Senatorial candidate Blake accused of involvement in gang violence.” _Slap!_ “Shooting Star or Supernova? Bellamy Blake's meteoric rise falters amid accusations of criminal past.” _Slap!_

Clarke Griffin, reputation-fixing specialist, is reading out headlines from major regional newspapers, letting each one fall onto the oval conference table her team are seated around. Once she's finished setting the scene in this manner, the sharply dressed blonde takes a seat herself.

“Our newest client, everyone.”

There is stunned silence for a moment.

“Blake? You want us to fix Blake?!”

Clarke's resident hacker Monty Green sounds incredulous, but his friend and colleague, social media wiz Jasper Jodan, appears undaunted.

“Well, the first headline is easy to disprove – if he was ever in prison, there'd be a record, and that would be that.”

“Thanks Jasper, that's probably half our work done then.” Raven Reyes's voice is dripping with sarcasm and Jasper looks slightly offended, but Clarke cuts in before he can reply.

“That headline is completely over the top of course. But there have been nasty rumours about Blake being involved in gang activity in his youth, and we've been asked to help his people limit the damage. They've sent some material to get us up to speed before he comes to meet us in” Clarke quickly glances at the heavy men's watch on her left wrist, “forty-five minutes.”

Clarke motions towards the glass door at the receptionist and Maya carries in a box filled with folders and files while the tech personnel boot up their laptops and Clarke and her best friend, PR strategist Wells Jaha, pull up the digital info packet on their tablets.

For a little while, there's silence as everyone reads the introductory dossier, containing Blake's biographical info and some words on the corner stones of his campaign. Then they move on to the articles detailing his opponent's recent, shockingly successful smear campaign.

“So, what are we thinking? Do or don't?”

“Does he expect us to help him win this election, or are we just there short-term to make the dirt disappear?” Clarke can practically hear the gears in Wells' mind starting to turn, coming up with possible strategies for both scenarios.

“His campaign manager said that for now, we're only called in for damage containment. But if that goes well, they're open to working together on his campaign. I know some of you have never been closely involved in an actual campaign, so I figured it might be a nice trial run.”

“Don't let the client hear that,” Wells mutters, and Clarke playfully rolls her eyes at him.

“Of course I won't. I'm not an amateur. But I'm not going to damage my reputation with a hopeless case. He doesn't have to actually win the seat, but I'd like to be sure his career does't go completely up in flames while we're working on him. So I'd like to know – do you think we can turn him around?”

Wells shrugs. “It could be interesting. He's a virtual outsider, hasn't held a political office on any level before, but he has Governor Kane's backing and his ratings before the gang thing were solid.”

“Outsider is putting it mildly – he basically grew up in a trailer park. At least it makes him stand out from the competition.” Raven adds, and Clarke nods.

“Definitely. Too bad he'll never make it.”

The team looks surprised at Clarke's negative statement – their boss is not normally one to dismiss people out of hand.

“Why not? He's got a solid platform – enough changes to promise some fresh wind but not radical enough to scare off moderate voters. Plus, he's got charisma. And for once, his 'man of the people'-thing isn't an act.”

Monty nods in agreement with Wells' summary. “True. He's the rags to riches-dream personified – making it from the wrong side of the tracks to the Hill through hard work and sheer force of will.”

“Plus, he's hot.” Raven's opinion prompts Monty and Jasper to crane their heads to appraise the many pictures of the tall, dark-haired candidate on the table before them.

“And while all those things may make him popular with the voters, they won't get him the win. Because the people who really count, the ones who pull the strings and, more importantly, hold the purse strings, they hate this guy.”

Jasper looks up from his assessment of the pictures with an almost petulant expression. “What? Why?”

“Because he's not one of them. His whole backstory, the rags-to-riches-thing, that's all well and good, a nice touch to update the party's image, but in the end, they won't want an outsider sticking around.”

Next to Clarke, Wells nods. “That's precisely why it's so important for him to have the public's approval. He needs to win this on his own merit.”

“Well, I'd vote for him.”

“What a hopeful beginning for our partnership.” The voice ringing out from the door is deep and sonorous, and most importantly for startling Clarke out of her thoughts, it's a stranger's voice.

She sizes up the new arrival: He's every bit as tall, dark and handsome in person as he is in the pictures before her. But in the sunlight streaming in through the large windows, Clarke can see freckles across the bridge of his nose that aren't apparent in the photos, and neither is the impression of sheer force emanating from him. 

Straightening up from the table, Clarke walks over towards him, hand outstretched, heels clacking an energetic beat on the hardwood floor.

“Mister Blake. It's a pleasure to meet you, although normally, our guests wait outside.”

“Your receptionist said you'd make an exception.” Blake shoots her a smile that Clarke is sure he has filed under 'charming' in his mental folder of facial expressions for the adoring masses. Clarke's returning smile is polite but restrained. As a natural blonde, she has learned that smiling tends to mean navigating a thin line between the ditz and the ice queen, and she prefers to err on the latter side. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Wells levelling Maya the receptionist with a stern glare.

“I am sorry for showing up early and interrupting your meeting, but my previous engagement ended early, and I thought the sooner we start, the better. I see you're already getting acquainted with the material my campaign manager sent you. That's promising.”

Clarke suppresses a sneer at his patronising tone. What did he think she'd do with the campaign materials and newspaper clippings – doodle hearts on his photographs? Clarke has been speedreading the material since she got into the office at six this morning.

“It's all part of the process. But now that you're here, we can get started right away.” She tries to be polite but ends up sounding a little brusque and hoping he'll chalk it up to simple professionalism.

“So how do we start? Will there be an interrogation?”

He flashes that smile again, and Clarke notes with annoyance that he's added a dimple on one cheek, probably because he noticed her distant manner and has resolved to charm her. Apparently, he's a man who likes a challenge. She files that information away for later and gestures towards an empty chair. Blake sits down, followed by the man who came in with him and whom he now introduces as Nathan Miller, his campaign manager.

Clarke has made it a habit at every first meeting with a new client to take note of how her team reacts to them – their wildly different personalities make for a rather representative cross-section of possible reactions to a client, and she'll get an inkling of how the public might react. Wells, while outwardly his usual calm self, seems slightly unnerved by the man, which is no surprise – Clarke could hardly imagine anyone more different from the reserved ex-lawyer than Blake. Jasper is almost a little starstruck, but then Jasper is easy to impress. Raven seems to waver between checking him out and looking rather bored, and Monty's eyes are on Blake's campaign manager most of the time.

“Mr Blake, before we start, I am going to tell you the thing I tell all my clients: If you want us to help you, you need to be absolutely honest. We're going to stir up a lot of dust, and if we or anyone else finds some dirt you didn't mention before, it's going to make things much more complicated. So first off, is there anything to these rumours? And I don't mean do you have a record. If you think you ever _got away_ with anything, I need to know, even if you think no one else does.”

He watches her, his eyes dark and intense; almost predatory. Clarke forces herself to hold his gaze.

“There is one thing.” Clarke nods, encouraging him to go on. “When I was nine, I stole a box of baby formula.” He keeps his expression carefully neutral even as Jasper and Monty burst out laughing and even Wells smiles. Clarke does not share in the merriment. Neither does Blake, she notices, and wonders if there's more to the story than a few bucks' worth of baby food.

“I believe that is negligible. But what about your teen years? Are you telling me that, growing up in the kind of neighbourhoods you did, you never even so much as jacked a car?”

Almost imperceptibly, a muscle in Blake's jaw twitches and his eyes flash, but his voice remains even and pleasant. “I can assure you, I didn't. I was too busy trying to keep my sister alive for those kind of antics.”

Clarke watches him for a few moments. He's clearly upset by her probing, by the way she makes it sound as if his origins were a taint he could never get rid of. It was a calculated provocation on her part, and it paid off. Clarke now knows three things about Bellamy Blake: He's proud, he's honest, and he won't be made to feel ashamed of where he's from.

“Good. Now we know where we stand, we can start. Mister Miller, I think I asked you to bring Mister Blake's schedule for the next month...”

Blake looks slightly baffled by her sudden change of tone, but her team are used to it, and Miller just wordlessly pushes an iPad in her direction. A neat multi-coloured chart shows the candidate's many commitments for the next weeks, and Clarke engrosses herself in it, the wheels in her head starting to turn as she goes over possibilites.

Clarke's team know not to interrupt when she's concentrating, but Blake is apparently starting to get impatient.

“Well, Miss Griffin, am I fixable?”

With a frown, Clarke tries to get her thoughts from a public speaking event two weeks in the future back to the present and Blake's insufferable smirk.

“Most people are, in my experience.”

“Don't take this the wrong way, but you seem a little...” He actually has the nerve to let his eyes rake up and down her body. By the time his eyes meet hers again, they've gone even darker. “...young to have that much experience.”

Clarke feels the sudden raging desire to pick up the iPad before her and whack him over the head with it. Instead, she raises her head ever-so-slightly and holds his gaze. If she's going to be weighed and measured, she will not be found wanting.

“Mister Blake, if you don't trust me to handle your case, feel free to address any one of the many consultants in this city who provide similar services. I doubt many of them will even take you on. You're not exactly everybody's darling right now.”

He probably expected her to sugarcoat his situation, coddle the prospective client to make sure he stays with her. Well, Clarke doesn't sugarcoat, and she sure as hell doesn't coddle. The measuring stare he's pinning her with is just one more thing about him that she will try and fail to get used to over the following weeks.

“I didn't mean to offend; I do want you to handle my case. Your talents have reached mythical proportions in some circles.”

He flashes her his dimpled smile again, but now Clarke doesn't bother to return it. He's put his career in her hands, he's going to listen to what she says, politeness be damned.

“Save that charm for later. You're going to rub some shoulders today.”

His eyebrows rise in surprise. “You already have a strategy?”

“No. But until I do, we're going to lay the ground work – introduce you to people, make sure the campaign funds keep flowing.”

Blake looks at her expectantly and she starts laying out her plans for the next week, a patchwork of public appearances and semi-private networking opportunities. Now that he's dropped the idiotic smile and is listening intently, Clarke is beginning to think that maybe she can work with this man after all. He's not stupid, at least, he's willing to listen to her, and most importantly, he's a fighter.

Yes, Clarke thinks, she can fix Bellamy Blake.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, things are off to a good start for those two...  
> I'm so very, very excited about this story, but also a little scared because it's going to be longer and more plot-heavy and complex than anything I've ever written. Please don't expect a realistic portrayal of the world of politics – my research consists of Wikipedia entries, watching Scandal and Veep and googling senatorial campaign sites, so please tell me if something is glaringly wrong. (Or if you like the story. Feel free to tell me all about that too.)


	2. Chapter 2

After they've finished filling up Blake's schedule with a host of carefully calculated engagements, Clarke and Wells accompany their new client and his campaign manager to the door. While the rest of the team are no doubt arguing about what to order for lunch, Clarke and Wells stop by the kitchenette. It's their ritual at the start of every new case: The team deliberates, Clarke makes the decision, Clarke and Wells recap over hot beverages. Clarke tends to make these decisions based on her gut feeling, and talking to Wells helps her figure out how to approach their case.

“So, you don't like our client,” Wells states casually while he starts preparing his Earl Grey, a preference he picked up during a semester in London.

Clarke cringes. “Was it that obvious?”

“Only to me. And if Blake noticed he didn't mind being bossed around too much.”

“He probably thinks it's 'feisty'.” Clarke switches on the gleaming monster of a coffee maker, pushing the button with more force than necessary. “He probably uses 'feisty' as a compliment.”

Wells laughs, and maybe Clarke does sound a little like a petulant child. Sighing, she goes about making her fourth coffee of the day.

“I don't know why, but something about him rubs me the wrong way. Why question my experience after he's already decided to come to us with his problem?”

“Maybe he was trying to provoke you, see how you handled it. You did the same thing to him.”

Of course Wells has noticed her little test – not only have they been working together for years, they've been best friends since pre-school. It's the reason Clarke can ask her friend the questions she doesn't like to ask herself.

“Do you think I can handle him?”

“Are you sure you even _want_ to handle him?”

And that's the real question here, Clarke thinks. She ponders it as she watches the coffee drip into her mug. Oddly, the colour reminds her of Blake's eyes. 

“Yes. Personal dislike aside, I agree with his politics for the most part. And that smear campaign is disgusting, so obviously playing on his background. He deserves a chance, at least.”

“He's an idealist. You don't see many of those around these days. And if anyone can save him, it's you.”

The vote of confidence from her friend is exactly what she needs after Blake has so unexpectedly ruffled her feathers.

“Let's get to work then. I want this case to go so well it knocks that smug smile off Blake's face for good.”

Wells grins. “That's my boss – always the professional.”

Clarke elbows him in the side. “Oh shut up.” But there's no malice in her voice, and not enough force behind her jab to make him spill his sacred tea.

 

***

 

Three hours later, Clarke isn't quite so confident anymore. In addition to the information provided by Blake's people, Monty and Raven have trawled their various resources for everything else they can find on their client. Wells and Jasper have put together a media profile with various possible ways to position his public persona. Clarke has spent the time alternately staring at her tablet and out the big window at the ebb and flow of traffic, hoping to find inspiration.

But so far, inspiration has not been granted. Returning to the table, Clarke rests her hands on the smooth cherry wood and stares down at the hodgepodge of files, flyers, tablet screens and newspaper clippings.

“What about the sister? Blake brought her up alone from the age of 21, put her through college by working three jobs – that's some powerful backstory. Can we put her in the spotlight?”

“I'm not too sure....”

Wells pulls up a file marked 'Octavia Blake' and opens it to reveal a photo of a gorgeous brunette woman in a bikini, straddling a motorcycle in the style of a not-too-classy pin-up calendar, followed by a copy of a court file.

“She's got a record?! What for?”

“Simple assault and vandalism... It's juvenile, and she only got community service hours...” Wells sounds hopeful, but Clarke shakes her head. 

“She's poison. Let's keep her away from this. We're trying _not_ to connect Blake with criminal activity, the first thing the media are going to latch onto if we introduce the sister is her record.”

Wells nods, and Clarke closes the file again, looking around the table.

“What else have we got? Monty, Jasper, did our client measure up to your tests?”

“Well, I've run his finances and they're squeaky clean. He's not exactly superrich, but he's got some capital and it's traceable to the last dime. All his financial records are in order, tax return files dating back to his very first job... It's like he was planning for this from his first day of flipping burgers.”

“Good, that's good. What about the army background?”

Raven rattles off the stats: “Tours in various terrorist hotbeds, honorable discharge at 21, when his mother died and he became his sister's sole caretaker. No outstanding heroics, but the recommendations from his superior officers would have helped him with a solid military career. He probably decided against it because of his sister.”

The meeting continues in this vein, to Clarke's increasing frustration. Apart from the disaster of a sister, there's nothing particularly _bad_ about Blake, but there's also nothing that jumps out at her as the starting-point for her strategy. She has a feeling that nothing in those files and articles will inspire her – she'll have to observe the man in action.

 

***

 

Clarke gets the opportunity to do just that two days later, when Blake's next big interview comes up. Wells, Miller and Jasper spend the time until then publically countering the gang crime accusations and supplying the media with people from Blake's past who are willing to give glowing statements about him – Monty and Raven manage to unearth everyone from a former neighbour to his high-school guidance counselor. Clarke, meanwhile, holes up with Blake to prepare for the TV appearance every second he's not busy shaking hands and making friends, a phrase she has come to love because it makes his eye tick whenever she uses it around him. 

On the day of the interview, Clarke watches backstage at the studio with Wells, her eyes never leaving her client on the screen before her. She has her notes and the print-out of his talking points in front of her, but they've gone over them so often that she doesn't even need to look down to know what he's going to say for most topics, at least the ones he wants to go into in more depth.

Blake refuses to say more than a few sentences about his opponent's accusations, and thankfully, the host lets him off the hook pretty quickly. He makes it safely through taxes and social spending. But instead of allowing him to focus on labor rights, his strongest issue, the host brings up reproductive rights, an issue he has not taken a clear stance on yet. And that, of course, is exactly what is asked of him now.

Blake waits for a long moment, letting his eyes roam over the audience before he starts speaking.

“ _I've been thinking about this issue a lot. My life has been shaped in large part by two women, my mother and my sister, and it is with them in mind that I come to these questions.”_

He pauses and Clarke is starting to get a little nervous. This is the topic they have worked on the least, so she doesn't really know what he's going to say next. She can only hope _he_ knows. But the pause stretches on, Blake's gaze fixed on the wall behind the audience, and people are starting to get restless. The host has to make a prodding comment before Blake finally continues, sounding almost bereft.

“ _I was eight years old when my mother got pregnant again, and even at that age, I knew she was not happy about it. My father had died a few years earlier, my mother had lost her job due to a chronic illness and could barely support the two of us with odd jobs and welfare. The boyfriend in question had taken off the moment my mother told him about the pregnancy, leaving her with no one by her side but an eight-year-old boy. My mother struggled with the decision for weeks. In the end, she chose to keep the child, and to this day, my sister is the most important person in the world to me. But if any woman were in the same situation and wanted to make a different choice, I would not try to dissuade her.”_

Murmurs are starting to rise up in the audience, but Blake pushes on, his voice getting firmer: _“My sister's childhood was not easy. My mother's illness got worse under the strain of taking care of two children, and we sometimes went hungry for days until I was old enough to pitch in.”_

He pauses as if to gather his thoughts, taking a deep breath.

_"Proponents of restrictive abortion laws like to paint the women who take that road as careless and promiscuous. But more often than not, those women are overwhelmed, scared and alone. And even if they weren't, it would not be my place to tell them if they should or should not be able to take care of a child. So to everyone insisting that we need to do more to protect unborn children, I say: What about the chilren who have already been born? Who were 'saved' by legal restrictions or a mother's inability to afford an abortion, only to end up being neglected, starved and deprived of the chances this country promised them when they were still a fetus? I want us to look at the mothers and children who are struggling and help them in whichever way they need to be helped. I don't want any child to go hungry the way my sister and I did.”_

There's complete silence in the studio for a long moment.

Clarke has heard a lot of speeches in her career, has written a good number of them too, but she rarely sees someone captivate an audience like that. Not to mention, she rarely sees a politician, and one so proud and headstrong as Bellamy Blake, lay bare the darkest parts of his life before the public to make a point.

The audience erupts in rapturous applause, and next to her, Wells murmurs: “Amazing.”

Clarke has to agree.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I'm so nervous about this chapter because it's so heavy on politics. Just remember, the politics are just the setting - really the story is about bickering, sexual tension, badassery and all the awesome characters.  
> Since Clarke will watch a lot of TV appearances, I'll use Italics in those situations to make it clear who's talking on screen and who in person.  
> Also, it's really weird to keep writing 'Blake' instead of 'Bellamy'.  
> Joining the gang next chapter: Octavia!!!


	3. Chapter 3

Things really pick up speed after that. Blake's well-received speech finally provides Clarke with a strategy: Bombarding the public with the side of him he has just revealed, the caring brother and son, the sensitive man who wants to let women make their own choices and feed the children. His passionate voice will do its part to drown out the nasty rumours.

Unfortunately, that strategy presents her with one problem.

“We're going to need the sister.” Wells' tone is careful as if he expects her to blow up at the suggestion, but Clarke sighs and nods.

“I know.”

Now that Blake has brought such attention to his family, it doesn't take long for pictures of the younger Blake to appear in the tabloids and gossip programs, taken from her high school yearbook, her employer's homepage, a childhood portrait of brother and sister released by Blake's PR team.

So Clarke tells Blake to send in his sister, explaining that the media will get a hold of her one way or another, and that it will be much easier for her if they help ease the younger Blake into the public eye. Grudgingly, he relents.

That's why, three days after Blake's electrifying interview, Clarke and team are sitting in the meeting room, waiting for Octavia Blake. Who is late. Almost an hour, Clarke notes when she looks at her father's watch for what feels like the hundredth time. And just when she's about to pick up her phone to call Blake and give him a piece of her mind on his unreliable little sister, the door bangs open, causing the papers on the table to flutter across the room. In strides a woman in torn jeans, biker boots and a well-worn leather jacket, her long brown hair styled in messy braids.

“So you're the people trying to keep my brother from getting screwed by those snobby assholes. What can I do to help?”

“For one thing, you can stop calling your brother's political opponents 'snobby assholes',” Wells deadpans.

Octavia looks at him for a moment, expression so stormy that Wells actually recoils. Then her face splits into a grin.

“Done. But only in public.”

She throws herself into a chair, looks around the table and asks: “Well? What are we waiting for?”

What follows are two hours of intense arguing, which does not stop when Octavia's brother appears at the office – quite the contrary. Octavia is angry at her brother for not asking her for help earlier, angry at Miller for not going behind his back and calling her himself, angry at Clarke's team for taking such a risk-averse, defensive approach to her brother's campaign instead of, as she puts it, 'destroying the bastards'. She is certainly a woman with a lot of opinions and no fear of voicing them loudly, but by the time they've prepped her for the following day's interview, Clarke nonetheless thinks that she likes Octavia much more than her brother.

 

***

 

Since Octavia flew into town from an expedition through the Alaskan wilderness without stopping by her apartment in New York, Clarke lends her some clothes to wear for the interview. Under vocal protest, Octavia trades in her torn-up jeans for a cleaner, less damaged pair and her faded tank top for a simple blouse, but she can't be talked out of her heavy boots. In the end, Clarke nonetheless likes the result: as if to offset her brother's polished look, Octavia looks casual and approachable. Clarke can only hope that image translates to her behaviour during the interview.

Taking a seat backstage, Clarke focuses on the screen. After a bit of introductory chitchat, the host gets right down to the reason Octavia is sitting in the studio in the first place: Blake's already infamous speech on abortion rights.

_“That was a very personal story your brother told viewers at his last interview. How do you feel about that?”_

Octavia shrugs. _“It was the truth. I'm not angling for pity here, but our childhood sucked. We were dirt-poor, and I'm not ashamed to let people know.”_

The host nods, masking his discomfort under a saccharine smile and quickly moving on to the next question.

_“It was the first time your brother took such a conclusive stance on the issue of women's reproductive rights. What do you think caused that?”_

Octavia's silence is not noticeably long, but still long enough for Clarke to note a slight shift in her expression, a predatory flash in her eyes that reminds Clarke of her brother and that she knows by now means trouble.

_“Maybe it was the fact that I called him a few days earlier and told him I had an abortion.”_

Clarke clutches her pen so hard that a piece of it snaps off, and Wells leans into her to lay a calming hand on her arm.

“Breathe, Clarke. Keep breathing.”

In the studio, the host is clearly struggling for words, but Octavia takes no pity on him, calmly waiting for the next question as if she hadn't just casually mentioned her abortion on national television.

_“I imagine that might change a lot of people's opinions on the issue.”_

And now Octavia looks directly at the camera, which she has been explicitly told _not_ to do before the show.

_“It shouldn't have to take someone's sister, daughter or girlfriend going through this for people to see that women need to be able to make choices for themselves. It should be an indisputable human right.”_

Clarke whimpers - she can practically see the pearls being clutched all over the political news outlets. She has to force herself to concentrate during the rest of the interview, which eventually turns to lighter subjects and shows Octavia as a warm and witty person: She tells a few funny childhood anecdotes, like the story of how Bellamy picked her name after reading a biography on the Roman emperor Augustus, and speaks with awed reverence of her recent experience on a research boat in Antarctica.

Clarke gradually starts to relax again, and by the time she receives a text from Jasper, she has to grin despite the onset of a headache:

_octavia blake, the woman who launched a 1000 hashtags._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you hadn't noticed it yet: Here there be feminist debates. But don't worry, the story won't be all interviews, there will be some action (and Bellarke interaction) eventually, as well as sexual tension and ALL the side-ships.  
> Also: Octavia is an explorer!


	4. Chapter 4

Wells purposefully sits in between them in the car back to the office, but Clarke, as always, is too busy thinking of her next steps to pay attention to the rather smug-looking Octavia. Still, she can't believe the woman went this far off script. Clarke shares the same position on the issue of reproductive rights, but there's a difference between considering yourself a feminist and having to _sell_ a feminist – and her closet Marxist of a brother – to the public, no matter how charming and attractive.

Blake arrives at the office shortly after them, hugging Octavia tightly.

“So, I hear people loved my sister.”

Blake's smile seems genuinely affectionate, and Clarke finds herself thinking that it makes him look younger, and much more likeable. She pushes the thought away to listen to Jasper sum up the social media reactions he's been tracking during and after the interview.

“Octavia's interview is already going viral. The more well-meaning media outlets have dubbed her an 'amazon' and a 'breath of fresh air on the political landscape'. Commenters on more conservative sites are more likely to call her a 'feminazi'.”

“That's just because they secretly want to bang me.” Ignoring the face her brother pulls, Octavia grins and high-fives a blushing Jasper.

“Be that as it may, it won't help us much with the moderate vote, not to mention conservative media are up in arms because you said abortions should be a human right.”

Blake glares at Clarke, clearly getting ready to defend his sister, and Jasper intervenes: “On the plus side, Bellamy's alleged gang past hasn't been mentioned at all today.”

Octavia beams. “There you go, mission accomplished.”

Her brother smiles back, and Clarke feels a sting of regret at having to ruin the moment to push on. “So you're happy with your sister's interview?”

“I couldn't be more proud of her.”

Clarke mentally weighs her options: She can go the safe route, tone down Blake's explosive potential, make him more sellable in the process but also more boring. Or she can use the passion he brings to the table and hope it will make voters willing to let him challenge them. It's not a hard decision to make.

“Then that's exactly what we'll tell people.”

 

***

 

And so, the barrage of interviews continues. For once, the fact that it's a slow news week works in their favour, as the news channels and political talks are desperate for anyone who promises to bring some excitement to their routine programming – and the Blake siblings bring it in spades.

Conservative media attack Octavia for admitting to the abortion and try to paint her as promiscuous and reckless by procuring the bikini-modelling photos. The attempt backfires spectacularly: In her second TV interview, Octavia reveals the whole heartbreaking story, about a car accident that killed her fiancé and left her in the position to decide between her own life and the baby's. The experience, Octavia says, was so harrowing that she never told anyone about it for years afterwards, not even her own brother. She returns to the office afterwards to standing ovations from the team, and within a week, Octavia turns into the most prominent new face of the women's rights movement.

While Octavia wins the public over with her brutal honesty and vibrant energy, her occasionally prickly demeanour balanced out by a bright smile and an optimistic outlook on life, her brother turns up the charm another notch and soon has the entire country falling in love with him, or so it seems.

Clarke watches with irritated fascination as he turns yet another TV presenter into mush with his 1000-watt-smile.

 _“_ _Your sister appeared on the scene rather abruptly – people have speculated you pulled her out of the hat as a PR gimmick, especially with the bomb she dropped during her first interview....”_

 _“_ _There's a very simple reason for that – I wanted to keep my sister out of my campaign as far as possible. She's at an important place in her career right now and doesn't have the time to go campaigning with me, even though she offered to. She was actually on a research trip for the past few weeks, so we didn't have a lot of contact. When she heard about my difficulties, she dropped everything to be by my side. And trust me when I say, once my little sister has gotten something into her head, no one is going to talk her out of it.”_

Watching the host chuckle from the plushy sofa in her office, Clarke shakes her head and shoots Wells an incredulous look. “Who _is_ this man?”

“What do you mean?”

“Please, you've met Blake – he's an arrogant ass. And yet, they're all putty in his hands. It's like he's bewitching them.”

Wells' mouth twitches in amusement. “Shouldn't that make you happy? It makes our job so much easier.”

“I guess.” Clarke focuses once more on the TV screen, but she can't shake her uneasiness, or the feeling that Blake's polished exterior is hiding edges sharp enough to cut.

The talk show host is now outright flirting, trying to create intimacy with subtle little touches like a hand on his arm. _“_ _Sounds like you're a very tight-knit family.”_

Blake nods, a fond smile on his face warring with the emotion lacing his voice. _“Well, she's the only family I have.”_

There's a break in the conversation as the host allows the audience to react, and Clarke snorts.

“She should be on our payroll. Wait, is he tearing up right now? Don't overdo it, Blake. Theatrics like that are going to alienate people.”

Grinning, Wells sits down next to her to watch Clarke commenting on the interview as if it was a particularly exciting game of soccer. “Would you like me to get you some popcorn to throw at the screen?”

Instead of replying, Clarke shushes him as the conversation continues on the bright blue studio stage.

_“ Your critics have questioned if you're actually mature enough to take on such an important office, seeing as you haven't even settled down with a family yet...”_

Clarke has to hand it to Blake, he is an excellent actor. Right now, his face is conveying a hefty but moving dose of martyred self-reflection.

 _“_ _The thing is, I have been thrust into being a quasi-parent too early. When I actually become a father, which, just to be clear, I really want to be one day, I want to be ready. And besides,”_ he shrugs and smiles almost shyly as he looks directly at the camera, _“I just haven't found the right woman yet.”_

Clarke's groan prompts Wells to laugh out loud. “He is brilliant.”

“He's hammy and over the top.”

“And voters are going to gobble it up. Come on, Clarke, every unmarried woman watching this is wondering if she could be the right woman.”

“I strongly object to that. I'm an unmarried woman and I wouldn't go on a date with that man if I was paid to do it.”

“You're hurting my feelings, Miss Griffin.”

Clarke and Wells both whirl around to see Blake leaning against the doorframe with his suit jacket casually hooked over one shoulder and his smirk firmly in place. He does not look like he's hurt by her frank opinion in the least, but rather like he just stepped out of a fashion ad. Clarke can feel a blush rising up her neck and curses her light complexion and her apparent scatterbrain – she completely forgot that they were scheduled to review the interview that was pre-taped earlier this morning.

“Don't beat yourself up over it, I have very high standards. You should have managed to make enough other women fall in love with you.”

“My mission is accomplished then. Maybe I _should_ try and win you over next.”

“You wouldn't know where to begin.”

And then for the first time ever Clarke misses his stupid, smug smirk. Because his smirk, it turns out, is something she handles much better than the way he looks when he drops it, studying her with quiet intensity.

“Maybe I'd surprise you.”

Clarke can't tell if it's a challenge or a promise, let alone which she'd prefer. Between the TV screen behind her and the man leaning in the doorway, she now has two versions of Blake intense-ing at her, which is entirely too many even for a professional like her. Struggling to appear unfazed, Clarke quickly switches off the TV.

“I'm afraid we won't find out about that. Your energy is needed elsewhere.” Standing up, Clarke smoothes down her immaculate pencil skirt out of habit and notes the way Blake's eyes follow the movement of her hands. For a second, she imagines him putting his hands on the same place to trace the curve of her hips, and she has to turn away from him and pretend to look for something on her desk before he notices that her blush has intensified.

“Wells, if you could take Mister Blake to the conference room – I'll be there in a second.”

Wells shoots her a questioning look but gestures for Blake to follow him down the corridor, and Clarke lets out a relieved puff of air.

“What's going on there then?”

Raven's muffled voice startles Clarke so much that she drops the folder she just picked up. Leaning across the desk, she spots her friend squatting under it, fiddling with some wires.

“Jesus, Raven, what are you even doing there?”

“Checking your security system. The one that crazy banker guy had installed, remember? We never use it, but I update it regularly just in case you ever do need it.”

“I'm not going to need to turn my office into a bulletproof panic room.”

Raven shrugs. “You could also use the blinds to soundproof the room if you and Blake ever want to have a quickie on your desk.”

Clarke can only make strangled noises of outrage at the preposterous suggestion, and Raven chuckles. “I'm just saying, that would be a hate-fuck of epic proportions. That was some sexy banter just now.”

Clarke starts grabbing random stuff off her desk in a desperate attempt to keep her mind from combining the words 'Blake' and 'hate-fuck' into vivid imaginary scenarios.

“Don't be ridiculous. He's a client, and I can't stand him.”

Craning her head out from under the desk, Raven explains as if she was speaking to a particularly slow child: “Yes, that's why it would be a _hate-_ fuck. When's the last time you even had sex?”

This is getting absurd and Clarke's blush has still not subseded, so she decides to ignore her insane friend and stride off towards the conference room. Where she won't notice the way Blake's freckles seem to dance across his face when he talks, or that his hands are constantly playing with something, which just makes her imagine him putting them on her... Groaning, Clarke smacks the rolled-up newspaper in her hand hard against her forehead, ignoring Jasper's confused look as she passes him by.

By the time she enters the conference room, Clarke is cool and professional once more. She will _not_ let Blake get to her, no matter how knowingly he smirks.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am probably exaggerating how interested the media are in an obscure senatorial candidate and his sister, but let's just say it's a slow news week. I hope I didn't brush past Octavia's backstory too quickly, but I figured having her explain it in detail would slow things down and take time away from some much-needed Bellarke banter.  
> I intended for this to be a slow burn, but it looks like Clarke is already ready to jump someone's bones... oops. (sorrynotsorry)


	5. Chapter 5

With TV appearances and print interviews, well-chosen public appearances and Jasper's full-throttle makeover of both Blakes' social media presence, they manage to milk Bellamy's passion and Octavia's popularity for several weeks before interest dies down, and by then, no one even mentions the words 'criminal past' anymore.

Lesser political consultants would relax now, but Clarke is the best for a reason – while the public's goodwill for Blake has been restored, donors and political allies are still understandably spooked by the intermezzo, and their next step will be getting their support back. Blake's approach is to present Clarke with a list of the most important issues in his election programme. Clarke doesn't know whether to be annoyed or touched by this.

Five minutes into the discussion with an unusually grumpy and bad-tempered Blake, Clarke settles on annoyed: He keeps breaking into speeches on freedom and equality and justice when she just wants to figure out how to best approach potential donors. Eventually, Clarke snaps.

“Your idealism is very touching, Mister Blake, but donors won't be interested so much in your political principles as they will be in hearing what you can do for them if they support you.”

“I thought I was going to be doing things for my voters, not just my donors.”

“Well, technically, your donors could be your voters too...” Wells' interjection is well-intentioned but completely counterproductive, as it seems to only set Blake more on edge.

“Just say that you want me to suck up to the rich and powerful like everyone else.”

“Because it's how everyone else gets _elected_.” That's the side effect of taking on only clients who are honest and idealistic, Clarke thinks – they can end up being a little too honest and idealistic, and then she has to crush their dreams of changing the world by harping on about campaign funds and compromises.

“It's also how people like you are getting their rocks off, I bet. Nothing like a little power trip, lording your money over everyone else...”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“The only reason you understand these people so well is because you're one of them.” He says it like it's the worst insult imaginable.

“And the reason they don't accept you is that you still call them 'these people'. You want to be one of them. Start acting like it.”

“I thought your strategy was to be myself, not to mimic a bunch of preppy snobs.”

Clarke suppresses a frustrated growl, wondering if he's being obstinate on purpose.

“Just because our current strategy is taking root doesn't mean we're over the hill, so there's no need to get cocky. For one thing, our funds have all but dried out over this. We need to worry about fundraising, not the details of your _manifesto_.” Clarke tries not to sound sarcastic as she says the word, but she doesn't manage it completely. The man is acting like he's the second coming of Marx and Jesus combined.

“In that case, maybe now would be a good time for you to pull some strings. There must be a few favors you can call in...”

“Sure. Maybe while I'm at it I'll go door-to-door with a collection box and a few flyers.”

“That's not...”

“Wooing donors and constituents is your job. You just let me do mine and do as I say.”

With that, Clarke turns to take a phone call Maya is gesturing for her to take at the reception. Walking away, she can hear Blake mutter under his breath: “Stuck-up princess.”

Clarke pretends she didn't hear, but she grips the receiver so tightly that her knuckles hurt by the time she ends the call. At least it was worth it, she thinks as she stalks back into the conference room with a triumphant smile and tells him about the invitation he just received from a very important potential donor.

“But please, Mister Blake, no political heavy lifting for now. You just make sure the rich and powerful like you.”

Her tone is the vocal equivalent of a pat on the head and Blake _hates_ it, Clarke can tell by the way his jaw twitches. It pleases her so much that she gives Blake the details of his upcoming fundraising date with a small smile on her face.

 

***

 

After a long afternoon of tedious discussions, angry teeth-grinding (on Clarke's part) and sarcastic nicknaming (on Bellamy's), the senatorial candidate and his political consultant bicker their way to the elevator to attend another pre-planned event, and Monty heaves a sigh as he can finally return to his data in peace.

“Those two are toxic.”

Monty says it more to himself, but the moment the words are out he remembers that he's not actually alone in the conference room. Clarke, Wells and Bellamy may have left, and Jasper is helping Octavia set up a vlog, but Miller is still sitting at the table, having stayed behind to prepare the next events. Miller, whom Monty has learned by now is fiercely loyal to his boss, should probably _not_ hear Monty's unfiltered opinion of their client. The campaign manager, however, only chuckles softly.

“I expect one of them will bludgeon the other with a laptop one of these days.”

Monty looks up from his work in surprise. It's the first time he's heard the quiet man utter any sort of personal opinion, let alone a joke. Monty has noticed before that Miller is different from most political types he's ever met – quiet, reserved, an observer rather than the typical brand of attention whore this place is crawling with. He finds it intriguing, and together with the fact that the man is quite simply beautiful, sometimes Monty has trouble concentrating on his work when Miller is in the vicinity.

Like now, for example. Miller has apparently glimpsed something on his screen that captured his attention because he scoots closer on his chair and leans into Monty to take a look at the chart he has pulled up. Monty tries not to flinch back in surprise because that would make him look at best incredibly rude and at worst pathetically weird. So he forces himself to sit still as Miller's shoulder brushes against his and he can make out a faint musky scent, after-shave maybe or perfume. At least Monty hopes it is perfume, because if that is what the man just naturally smells like, he is completely fucked.

“... so maybe we can combine the workers' rights platform with the fundraising here.”

Miller looks at him expectantly, brown eyes wide, expression animated, and Monty curses himself for being so distracted.

“Yeah, maybe...”

“I mean, we'd have to find a way to sell our brave leaders on the compromise.”

Monty nods, swallowing hard as Miller smiles and laugh lines appear around his eyes that make him, if possible, even more irresistible.

“Of course, it would help if you were actually listening to me.”

“What? No, I totally am, I...” Monty can hear his voice croaking nervously and curses himself.

But while he's still trying to come up with a good excuse, Miller leans closer, eyes flickering from Monty's eyes to his mouth, and all his thoughts are being drowned out by the loud rush of blood through his head.

Then the other man's lips are on his, firm and gentle and electrifying – and gone again far too quickly.

While Monty's still completely shell-shocked, Miller gathers up his things. Only when his briefcase snaps shut does Monty find himself somewhat able to speak again.

“Why did you...how...”

“You've been staring at me since our first meeting.”

“I'm sorry...”

“Don't be. I like it, I thought I just made that clear.”

With a wink, Nathan picks up his iPad and briefcase and strides out. He's almost by the door when he throws back over his shoulder: "And if you ever want to stare at me in private, let me know.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm, this chapter feels a little filler-y, plus I'm afraid I placed Clarke and Bellamy too far apart on the pragmatism vs. idealism-spectrum. On the other hand: Fighting! Bonus Minty! (Best ship name ever.)  
> Things Octavia vlogs about: Pro-choice and human rights issues, environmentalism and animal rights, and the fact that her brother is too stubborn for his own good. Probably.  
> I promise, next chapter the plot really will kick it up a notch.


	6. Chapter 6

A little over a month after their first meeting, the Blakes and the 'field team' as Monty calls it, consisting of Clarke, Wells and Miller, return from yet another successful TV interview, the first one with both siblings and the last one for a while. They don't want the public to get sick of the name Blake, after all. The date provides a convenient occasion for Clarke's customary progress report meeting, and Monty and Jasper have duly prepared an overview of rating polls, media opinions and social media trends that they are now presenting.

“All in all,” Monty sums up his part of the presentation, “it seems that the tide has turned, thanks to Octavia.” Monty smiles at the brunette. “Everyone's talking about how brave and honest and charming you are, and your brother's ratings are through the roof.”

Jasper leads everyone in a round of loud applause for Octavia, before Blake's financial adviser Monroe chimes in:

“And while we're on the good news: We've managed to secure at least two big donors over the past two weeks and are in talks with more, thanks to Miss Griffin.”

This announcement sparks another round of applause, and Clarke has to wait for it to die down before she can give her own preliminary summary of their situation. It may be a little less enthusiastic but still, she thinks, altogether positive.

“We'll keep closely observing things for the next weeks, just in case something else comes up, but for now it seems that your fictional criminal past really is in the past.”

“Hear, hear!” Raven whoops as she enters the conference room, popping a bottle of champagne. “I say we drink to that before we do anything else.”

Clarke wants to protest that it's too early for them to rest on their laurels, but Maya has followed Raven with a tray of champagne flutes and is already handing them out, so she swallows down her reproach and accepts the glass. Maybe it will be good for morale to let the team celebrate for a bit before continuing on the next campaign stretch – assuming Blake wants to keep them on for the remainder of his run.

The few sips of champagne everyone receives only make them eager for further celebration, and at Jasper's imploring look, Clarke finally lets her team go for the night. Jasper invites everyone to a nearby dive bar, but Clarke returns to the conference room as their combined teams set out.

She wants to take another look back on the first phase of their project, maybe even start thinking strategy for the next stretch. Blake hasn't said if he wants to keep them on yet, but Clarke has to admit to herself that she really hopes he does. She still mostly can't stand the man, but his case has been challenging, his idealism is refreshing, and between him and his sister, there's never a dull moment. _(Plus, he's nice to look at_ , a voice that sounds a lot like Raven pipes up in her head.)

Gathering up the material scattered across the table, Clarke starts sorting through it. Normally, this would be Maya's job, but Clarke knows straightening up helps her clear her head, and Maya just looked so happy when Jasper asked her specifically to come celebrate with them.

Clarke is in the process of filing away all the printed material and adding a few observations to her notes when there's a knock on the door.

Startled, Clarke looks up to see Blake's familiar smirk, the roguish effect of which is accentuated by the fact that he's taken off his tie and switched his suit jacket for a casual leather one. Because she doesn't want to sit when he is standing, Clarke gets up and takes a few steps over to him, meeting him in front of the big window.

“Did you forget something, Mister Blake?”

“Yes. I forgot to thank you. We couldn't have weathered this storm without you.”

Clarke did not expect that, and his earnest thanks makes her feel unusually magnanimous. “I have to return the compliment – you and your team really pulled your weight.”

He shrugs. “It's _my_ career we're saving. I _should_ be the one working the hardest on it.”

Clarke is so surprised, she genuinely smiles at him. It occurs to her once more that she may have misjudged Bellamy Blake when he first came to her.

“Not all of our clients see things the same way. Many of them expect to lean back and let us handle things.”

“And you handled things brilliantly.”

She shrugs, trying not to feel pleased by his praise, and then suddenly has to laugh. “Look at us, outbidding each other with compliments. Let's just say we made a good team and leave it at that, shall we?”

After a moment's surprise, he shares in her laugh.

“Yes, we do make a good team. I'm almost looking forward to our next crisis.”

Clarke smiles, aware that she's doing far too much of that, especially considering that she normally finds his smirking swagger insufferable. Then again, the smile on his face right now is different, softer somehow and more open than the one he shows to the public, but that might just be the champagne talking.

“Let's hope it won't...”

There's a loud bang and the window behind them shatters into a million little pieces. Another bang and Blake lunges at her, pushing her to the floor. The next thing she knows, he's lying on top of her, and only when the third bang rings out does Clarke understand what Blake is doing: He's shielding her with his body.

Someone is shooting at them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was a little shorter, but it brought the story to an important place - Plot Central!  
> I am going to milk this thing for every cliffhanger I can, by the way. Muahahaha....


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snowstorm Octavia. Just saying.  
> 

Clarke is cowering on the floor of her conference room, her cheek pressed painfully into the glass shards on the hardwood floor, Blake's body heavy on top of her. Over the thunderous sound of her racing heart, or maybe his, she listens for another gunshot to ring out.

But everything stays silent for a few moments, and Blake straightens up slightly. Looking from the window-frame to the door, he seems to be pondering something before he takes off his leather jacket and lays it on the floor before her.

“Come on, we need to get away from this window. Stay down on the jacket so your hands and knees don't get cut up.”

Kneeling on the thick jacket, Clarke half-slides, half-crawls towards the door, Blake walking next to her in a low crouch.

Only once they've made it out of the conference room and around a corner do they straighten up. Blake looks her over her from head to toe while she does the same to him, noting that there's a piece of glass sticking out of his dress pants on one knee, another embedded in the side of his hand, but other than that he seems unharmed, so she focuses on the question at hand:

“What the hell kind of enemies do you have, Blake?”

Blake looks at her silently for a moment, his eyes roving from her hair that came undone of its chignon to the cuts on her cheek.

“I'm sorry. I should never have come to you. I want you to consider our partnership officially terminated and destroy any and all information you have gathered about me.”

“And I,” she takes his arm and starts pulling him into her office, “want to know what you're hiding from me that makes you a target for a fucking sniper.”

Before she switches on the light, Clarke walks over to her desk and hits what Raven calls the 'panic button'. Heavy metal blinds slide over her high windows and the frosted glass pane in the door, a metallic whirring sound indicating that the heavy bolts in the steel-enforced door are shutting them safely inside. When she moved into these offices, Clarke wanted to get rid of the unnecessary safety measures built in by her predecessor, a paranoid billionaire banker. But ripping them all out would have been more expensive than leaving them in and simply adjusting the décor to hide them, and now for the first time Clarke is happy about that.

“We're safe in here for now. When I press the button, Raven gets an alarm on her phone, and if she doesn't hear from me within the next five minutes, she's instructed to come here. I'll text her to stay on stand-by until we're done talking.”

“So you're taking me hostage.” Blake is casually pulling the glass shards out of his leg and hand, and Clarke hands him a box of kleenex to keep him from bleeding all over her persian carpet.

“If that's what you want to call it... I'd call it keeping you alive.”

“Shouldn't we call the police?”

“We will. Once I know more about what is going on here. So,” having texted Raven, Clarke takes a bottle of well-aged Scotch and two tumblers out of the bottom drawer on her desk and pours them each a generous two fingers, “let's talk.”

Blake accepts the proffered glass and takes a large gulp, exhaling shakily. So he isn't taking the whole thing quite as calmly as he appears to, Clarke thinks, watching him over the rim of her crystal tumbler as she takes a sip.

“You said it yourself – a lot of powerful people don't want someone like me in office.”

Clarke takes another sip of her drink. “That's true. But it's not the answer to my question: Why is someone trying to kill you?”

“I just told you the only reason I can think of.”

“You're lying. Yes, you're running for an office that many people would rather you didn't hold. But no one, I believe, has ever been killed over a Senate seat.”

“I honestly can't think of anything else.”

Blake's expression is imperturbable, a mask if ever she saw one, but Clarke's ears are still ringing with the sound of gunshots and she wonders if he doesn't understand the danger he's in or if he just doesn't care. She slams down her glass in frustration.

“Stop trying to make a fool of me. You know something someone doesn't want the world to know, and they're trying to silence you. And I won't let it happen. I won't let one of my clients get killed, not even a smarmy ass like you.”

“You know, between that affectionate term and whoever was shooting at me just now, I'm starting to feel a little unloved today.”

Clarke runs a hand across her face, flinching as the movement dislodges a piece of glass still stuck in her cheek. Taking a tissue from the desk, she presses it to her cheek and tries to ignore the sting.

“This is not something you can charm away, Blake. We need to get this cleared up before they come after you again. Or after your sister...” It's a low blow mentioning Octavia, but maybe it'll scare him into telling her what the hell is going on. Besides, it's not that far off – until they know who they're dealing with and what they want, everyone close to him might be in danger.

The smile drops off his face as he clamps his uninjured hand around her right arm, towering over her with a look on his face that she can only describe as feral. The sight fills her with relief - after weeks of his practiced charm, she finally gets a glimpse at the real Bellamy Blake. Not to mention, it tells her that she's not overreacting - this is not a fluke, or the random act of a disturbed individual. Someone was targeting him, and she's going to find out why. 

“Don't you dare bring my sister into this!”

“I have no intention of bringing anyone into this. But I want to know what _this_ is, so I can try and keep my people safe. Keep  _you_  safe.”

He looks at her for a long moment, assessing her, and lets go of her arm again.

“You need to trust me.” She has said this sentence a million times before, to clients panicking or trying to back out of a risky plan, and she knows how to make it sound convincing, alluring even.

Blake just shakes his head. “Considering the fact that someone is already shooting at us, I'd say you need to trust me.”

“I do.”

Again there's the assessing look, then an almost imperceptible nod as he sits on the visitor's chair in front of her desk. For a moment she considers taking her own chair, but putting a barrier between them would be counterproductive now that he's about to finally open up. She perches herself on the edge of her desk instead.

He stares down at the Scotch in his hand, sloshing the whisky around in the tumbler.

“I _have_ been involved in a crime in my life, but it wasn't gang-related.” He smiles wistfully into his Scotch. “And it never appeared on any sort of record because there were other people involved too, people who had the means and motivation to hush it up. You see, I was part of an unauthorized assassination that, had it been traced back to our forces, could have led to a diplomatic crisis.”

“A foreign politician?”

“Yes. A terrorist sympathizer.”

“It wouldn't be the first time our forces assassinated a terrorist on foreign ground. Why the cover-up?”

“Because this one was not officially a target. He was a local politician, rich and influential, who supported the terrorist militia but held up a democratic front. Officially, he was one of our allies. Secretly, he was funding terrorist boot camps.”

“Ah.” Well, that complicated things.

“We waited until troops of the terrorist militia had been spotted nearby, took weapons used by them, wore the same kind of clothes they did. But when we got there, someone let slip a few English words, and suddenly our CO told us that the back-up protocol was now in plan – we were to kill everyone within earshot, leave no witnesses. So we did. We killed everyone in the house.”

Clarke is suddenly gripped with the urge to tell him to stop, that she doesn't want to hear the rest of the story. From his hollow voice and the haunted look on his face, she can guess where this is going.

She forces herself to ask anyway. “Who was in the house?”

His voice breaks when he replies. “Apart from a handful of armed guards – his family. His elderly parents and in-laws, his wife, younger brother and sister-in-law, and his two teenage children. They were all gathered in the living-room, celebrating the son's fifteenth birthday, that's why they were up later than we had expected.”

Nausea rises up in Clarke, and she has to concentrate on simply breathing in and out as he continues, sounding very far away.

“Some of us refused. In the end, the CO and two members of my team executed the entire family by themselves. Then the CO went around, fired a few shots out of every rifle and told us that, technically, we had now all fired shots, and if any of this ever got out, we'd hang with him.”

So the story did take an unexpected turn, and Clarke feels overcome with relief. If he didn't do what she thought he'd admit to doing just now...

“You didn't shoot?”

“Only at the armed guards when they opened fire at us. I did not shoot at a single member of that family. I know that sounds hard to believe, and I have no proof, but... I didn't shoot any unarmed people. I tried, when we got the order. I ended up shaking so badly that I accidentally shot out a light bulb.”

He lets out a short, bitter laugh.

“I should have shot _him_. Stopped him somehow.”

“You had your orders....”

“That's a defense I would be sharing with the worst war criminals in the history of mankind.”

“So why didn't you ever say anything?”

“Because my mother had died the month before, and this was going to be my last mission before I could return home for Octavia. It was made very clear that if I gave my CO any reason to be dissatisfied with me, I wouldn't be discharged and my sister would end up in the system. For years after that, I was too terrified Octavia would be taken away if I drew any sort of attention to myself. When I built up my company, most of my contacts, employees and employers, were military or ex-military. If I had started pointing fingers at other uniforms – they wouldn't want to have anything to do with me. And I guess that a part of me just wanted to leave it behind.”

“I'm guessing the other men on the team were in similar situations?”

“They were all eager to get home – pregnant wife, dying parent... The few who didn't get discharged afterwards went on to rise through the ranks. Our silence was bought with a chance to lead our own lives the way we wanted, instead of dying in the dust.”

Clarke nods, starting to understand how things played out.

“And your involvement was never discovered?” Judging by the fact that she's never heard of this mission, Clarke guesses it wasn't.

“The official finding was that the terrorist militia was responsible. It may not have caused quite such a backlash if we'd only killed the politician, but the attack on his family put his government under pressure – they needed to send a strong sign that they wouldn't accept the murder of civilians, at least not if they were upstanding citizens. 85 civilians died in the resulting air strikes on villages where the terrorists were known to hide out. All because one of us cursed in English.”

She doesn't really know what prompts her to do it, but Clarke lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently, and he flinches as if she had struck him. But before she can pull away, he puts his hand over hers and holds it tightly. She looks down on his shoulders, so strong she's always surprised to find them neatly contained within his tailored suits. Now they're bent with the weight of his guilt, and she suddenly feels the irrational urge to run her hands through his messy hair and soothe it away.

“It's been seventeen years, but I still dream about it sometimes.”

After this sentence, little more than a hoarse whisper, silence hangs heavily between them for several long moments. Clarke wants to let him be the first to say something, to decide where he wants to go from here, but she also simply doesn't know what to say, how to feel about this. She pulls her hand out of his, fiddling with the edge of the framed picture of her father on her desk as she tries to sort her thoughts. A terrible crime has been committed and covered up, and Blake was involved. But does that make him a bad man, a liar, a cowardly bystander – or a victim of someone else's wrong decision?

It is only when he raises his head, looking like a lost little boy, that Clarke knows which side of this she'll be on. She downs the last of her Scotch, finalizing her decision, before she sets down the glass with a definitive thud.

“We are not letting them get away with this.”

His brown eyes widen in shock as her words sink in. “You don't think I'm a monster for letting it happen?”

“I think someone in this story is a monster, but it's not you. You failed to stop a crime, but you did it because you followed someone's bad orders. And that someone is going to pay.”

“How?”

“We need to find out who gave the order not to leave witnesses, and we need proof.”

“If I know anything about orders like this, it's that they don't leave a paper trail.”

“In that case, we'll have to find the human trail.”

“The CO?”

“The others on your team, the CO, the person he answers to, the person they answer to.... all the way to the top. And then we're going to blow the whistle on this.”

Clarke suddenly notices how excited she sounds, and realizes she needs to pace herself before she's getting carried away. Because this isn't something they can just throw out there and see what happens. This will have consequences – for her client, most of all, and it is her duty to at least point this out to him.

“But we need to be careful. If we find enough to go public, this will have ramifications. It will strain our diplomatic ties, and it will have consequences for you. Your involvement in this means you won't make senator, unless we manage to find the perfect spin. And if we can't prove that you didn't shoot any civilians, you'll have to plead superior orders. Which may or may not work. Meaning....”

“Meaning I could go to prison for this. And maybe I deserve it.” He looks down at his hands, and Clarke wonders what he's thinking. Is he only now realizing what he's getting himself into, maybe hoping to find a way to back out of this? Then he looks back up again. “So let's do this. We owe it to the people who died because of this mission. And this isn't just about those dead civilians. Our soldiers need to be protected from people like my CO and whoever put out that back-up protocol, people who would pressure their men into committing crimes.”

She studies him for a moment – his tense shoulders, set jaw, the fire in his eyes. The professional reputation-fixer inside her is close to hyperventilating, because he's about to wreck everything they've worked for, all the public favour they celebrated with champagne just a few hours ago. The chances that he will emerge from this with any semblance of a political career left are laughable, and she is tempted to try and protect him from the damage, to urge him to reconsider. But the person inside her who tries to do the right thing; the girl who still breaks into angry tears every time she tries to find out more about her father's death only to run into yet another wall, that person is burning with the same fire she sees in him right now.

“Alright.” She's about to pick up her phone and call Raven to come get them, seeing as calling the police is out of the question right now. Then she puts it down again as something occurs to her.

“Why now?”

He sets down the bottle of Scotch after having refilled their glasses while she expands:

“It doesn't make sense. You've been silent for seventeen years, and now would be the worst time for you to speak out. Why try to silence you when there was absolutely no risk you'd talk right now? Why risk drawing your attention to it, and the public's attention too if they actually managed to kill you?”

He takes a sip of Scotch, slowly as if he's dragging something out. Then, hesitantly, he replies.

“Because I already started digging again.”

“What?!”

“The whole thing with my alleged criminal youth reminded me that there really is a dark spot in my past, and like you said... these things will come out, and it's always better to act than to react.”

She is stunned into utter silence, but he continues.

“But more importantly, I didn't want to take up an office with a hundred deaths hanging over my head. I didn't want to be yet another government official who lied to his constituents. I wanted to get this cleared up in case I actually get elected.”

By now, Clarke is simply staring at him. He cannot actually have planned to casually come out to the public with the story of his involvement in a massacre of civilians.

“How could you possibly expect to be elected if you came out with this?”

Breaking eye contact, he looks down at his fiddling hands again. “Maybe I believed, deep down, that I don't really stand a chance anyway, and just figured I could use the extra attention from my campaign to expose the cover-up. I mean, come on, do you honestly expect me to win? You know what they call me at my opponent's campaign office? _Trailer Trash_.”

His dejected tone makes anger spark up within her – at this man who thinks so little of his chances that he's willing to sacrifice all of his political capital in a kamikaze attempt to uncover a crime that was committed and covered up by more powerful people. Angry at the world that made him think this was his only option. Angry at herself for caring about him and his past pain and future dreams, when she really shouldn't care about anything but making sure the client who hired her to help him become a senator becomes a senator, nothing more and nothing less.

“I cannot believe you didn't tell me about any of this. What did I tell you on our first meeting? I told you to be honest, to tell us all of your dirt. Not to keep it from us and try to clean it up yourself. You've put your career in danger, you've put your own life on the line, and you may have put everyone on our teams in danger too.”

Clarke can hear her voice trembling because she's suddenly reminded of a conversation she overheard years ago, when she listened to her mother plead with her father not to go public with something. She never found out what it was her father was supposed to be quiet about, but a week later he was dead, and Clarke is getting the grim impression that history is repeating itself. So many of the same elements are present that were there that night, when their car fell of a cliff just after Clarke managed to climb out: Broken glass, blood on her trembling hands, a deadly secret and a man too stubborn to save himself.

Clarke stumbles backwards onto the sofa and tries to take deep, steadying breaths, pushing the memory of her father to the back of her mind, only to be assaulted once more by the echoing sounds of gunshots and breaking glass. Through her haze, she's dimly aware of Blake sitting down next to her and asking if she's okay. She murmurs an affirmative, but all she can focus on is the fact that, for the second time in her life, she has found herself right next to a man that someone wanted dead.

His hand hovers awkwardly over her leg for a second before landing on her knee, reassuringly heavy. And then she finally tears her eyes off the bloodstained tissues on her desk and looks at him, this infuriating, enchanting, dangerous man.

This is a bad idea, Clarke knows, but she grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him towards her for a searing kiss.

For once, Blake doesn't protest. Instead, he puts his hands on her hips the way she imagined it in this very room weeks ago, and pulls her into his lap. The way that she's straddling him now is positively lewd, causing her skirt to ride up to the top of her thighs, and the idea exhilarates her. She grinds into him as her tongue meets his and he groans, tightening his grip on her hips.

Then his lips are on her neck and her hands are tugging his shirt out of his pants and fumbling with his belt, frustratingly unsuccessful until he laughs softly and takes over, leaving her to divest herself of her blouse and bra. It's all open-mouthed kisses from then and him ripping her pantyhose and pushing aside her underwear to slide into her, and only then, with his mouth closing hotly over one nipple and his hands guiding her hips on top of his, is Clarke _really_ sure that she's still alive.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... a lot of things happened in this one.
> 
> Honestly though, I am a nervous wreck posting this chapter, because the entire story hinges on whether or not the revelations and actions in it seem believable and make sense (and if I googled the military stuff right).


	8. Chapter 8

Clarke comes down from the most mind-blowing sex-and-adrenaline-induced high she's ever experienced with blood slowly trickling down her cheek and embarrassment flaring up in her. She pushes Blake, who has been pressing soft kisses to her neck, away and tries to scramble off him.

“I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me. I shouldn't have....”

She is stopped by a playful squeeze of his hands on her waist.

“Please, Princess, at least wait with the regrets until I'm no longer inside you.”

He presses one more kiss to her lips and then gently lifts her off him. While Clarke starts looking around for her bra and blouse and hoping she has another, non-torn pair of pantyhose somewhere, Blake walks over to the concealed door that leads to a small bathroom, casually zipping up his pants and buttoning his shirt as if what just happened had been nothing out of the ordinary. Clarke, meanwhile, is failing to form so much as a single coherent sentence over the white noise in her head. 

By the time she's put on her clothes again and is peeling the shredded pantyhose off her legs, he returns to sit next to her, holding antiseptic wipes and a packet of band-aids he must have retrieved from the first aid cabinet in the bathroom.

“Let me take a look at that cut on your face.”

“Oh, so now you're a nurse?”

“I've patched up a few scrapes in my time.”

Before she can protest, he brings one of the antiseptic wipes up to her cheek, and she flinches at the way it stings.

“Sorry. I'm trying to be gentle.”

And he really is, slowly and carefully cleaning the cut on her cheek while cradling the uninjured side of her face. Her skin tingles where he touches her, and she tries to ignore the way the soreness between her legs threatens to rise to a throbbing ache once more. Since he's so close and so focused on his task, she allows herself to study him: His cheeks are no longer as pale as before, but there are dark circles under his eyes that indicate that the evening has taken its toll on him too, and guilt starts to mix in with her embarrassment.

What the hell was she thinking having sex with her client, who was probably in shock and definitely emotionally agitated? No matter how upset she was herself, the fact is that _she_ initiated things, she took advantage of him when he was vulnerable. Not to mention that, despite the depths of humanity he revealed tonight, she was still ready to rip off the man's head just a few hours ago. 

As if he could hear her confused thoughts, Blake speaks, his voice warm and reassuring: “Listen, whatever the hell this was – if you want to pretend it never happened, we can. You were in shock; we both were. It's okay to go a little crazy after someone shoots at you. I don't think you're any less professional because of it.”

That's a surprisingly sweet thing to say, she thinks, but it doesn't help with the bigger problem.

“We didn't use protection.”

He stills in his movements to shoot her a quick look.

“I got tested a few weeks ago and I haven't had sex since then. I'm all clean.”

Relief floods her as he calmly finishes wiping off the blood and puts a bandaid over the cut.

“Me too. And I'll get some Plan B on the way home.” For all the times they've talked about his stance on reproductive rights and Planned Parenthood-funding, Clarke guesses neither of them expected the topic to become quite so personal. She tries to ignore the absurdity of the situation and gets to her feet. “So that's all settled then.”

For a moment, he looks as if he wants to say something, but a loud banging on the other side of the metal blinds startles them, followed by Raven's loud voice.

“Clarke, are you in there? You kept me on stand-by for ages, are you okay?”

“Yes. Is there... did you see anyone around outside?”

“No, there was no one. Do you want me to do a sweep?”

Sometimes Clarke forgets that her friend isn't just here to tinker with gadgets, but that Raven, equipped with a licensed gun and a brown belt in Krav Maga, also does what little security they need from time to time. Right now, the other woman's quick, efficient mode of dealing with an alarming situation is soothing her frayed nerves.

“Yes. But be careful – someone was shooting at us from the other side of the street. They might still be there. Take cover when you're in the front-facing rooms.”

“Copy that.”

Clarke listens to Raven's footsteps slowly walking down the corridor and feels relief bubbling up within her at the thought of getting out of the fortified room soon. Between Blake's horrifying story and the awkwardness after their inexplicable, inexcusable sex, she's starting to feel a little claustrophobic.

“Alright, we'll be able to get out of here as soon as Raven's done. We should hold off on calling the police for now - there's no use drawing attention to this before we've got enough to go public.”

“So where do we start?”

“We dig up everything we can about everyone involved back then. And for now, we're not telling the team. Or Octavia and Miller.”

“In case you hadn't noticed, those are some smart people. They're going to ask questions about the window.”

“We'll tell them I threw a stapler at your head.”

He looks incredulous.

“What? It's not like I hadn't thought about it before...”

Blake snorts rather inelegantly and Clarke busies herself with cleaning up the glass and bloody tissues until Raven taps on the door once more to tell them they're all clear. Thankfully, her friend accepts both Blake's presence and their very bareboned explanation for the whole situation without too many questions, and together they clean up the conference room and cover the broken window with a tarp. (Clarke isn't sure she actually wants to know why Raven has a tarp in her office, and she's not going to ask.)

Raven suggests Blake check in at a hotel, just in case someone comes by his apartment to try again, but he refuses.

“Octavia's still out, I texted her before. I don't want her to be there alone.”

Clarke is anything but convinced. “Alright, so you wait for Octavia to come home and then leave the apartment. Maybe you should even leave town altogether...”

“No. I'm not letting them chase me off, and I'm not going to hide. That's probably what they want.”

Clarke wants to protest, but she's seen the determined set of his jaw before and knows they've reached a point where he won't be convinced. So they drop off Blake at his apartment building, where Raven does another sweep first and then advises him to keep the door locked, the lights off and stay away from the windows. Clarke can't help but feel that that's not a lot of protection if anyone comes for him again. But Octavia is not in the guest bedroom, probably still out celebrating with the team, and he refuses to budge when she asks him again to let them bring him somewhere safer, or at least stay until then. Clarke could bet he won't even go to bed until his sister's home.

Just before following Raven out the door, Clarke looks back. He's sitting on an armchair in the dim living-room, staring at his hands, and she suddenly feels the urge to turn back, whether to keep him company or to try and keep him safe she doesn't even know.

As if he could feel her eyes on him, he looks up.

“Go get some sleep, Princess. I'm gonna need you on top of your game tomorrow.”

She doesn't, of course. By the time they've made it to Clarke's apartment with a quick detour to the drug store and Clarke has finished telling Raven the whole story (leaving out the tiny detail of their highly inappropriate quickie), the sun is rising outside.

Clarke is nonetheless at the office at nine, having given her team permission to come in late after their celebration. By mid-morning, Clarke lost count of how many times she's refilled her coffee mug, but other than that, she's completely on top of her game. It's going to take more than a sniper and Blake's secret to take her down.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Compared to the last two chapters, this one was positively quaint. But hey, I'm not one of The 100 writers – I can't make insane shit go down in every chapter.  
> To be honest, I'm not too happy with the slightly wooden STD/pregnancy conversation, but I wanted to make it clear that these are characters who normally wouldn't have unprotected sex. And I guess it definitely adds to the awkwardness of the situation.  
> Oh, I also finally got around to creating a tumblr for my fandoms, so if anyone wants to find me there, I'm under the same name as here. Fair warning though: I'm not good at tumblring yet, there's like five posts on my page. I'm working it out.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the last two chapters were all Clarke and Bellamy, here's everyone else!

To say that Lincoln has been having a slow day would be an understatement - he's been having, quite possibly, the most boring day since he became a Detective with the MPDC. So when a woman walks in late in the afternoon, he says a silent thanks that all of his colleagues are on a coffee break and practically drags her to his desk in the hope that she'll have something interesting for him.

She does, but it might be a little _too_ interesting to be true.

“Someone's been trying to kill my brother, and he refuses to report it.”

“Do you know who, or why?”

“No. I think he knows something that someone doesn't want the world to know. Either that, or someone doesn't want him to become a senator.”

Lincoln suppresses a sigh of disappointment. They get those a lot in DC, paranoid conspiracy freaks, but she really hadn't looked like one, with her practical leather jacket, confident stride and glossy dark hair. Normally, those types were lucky if they remembered to put on pants before swinging by the station with their increasingly outlandish stories.

Apparently, the woman is as perceptive as she is pretty, because she noticed his reticence. “I know how that sounds. But I've got proof. My brother has gotten a lot of attention since he started running for senator – whatever he knows, a lot of people will listen if he talks about it.”

As she mentions the word senator for the second time, he finally realizes why she looked so familiar – she's been all over the news lately, her outspoken opinions, charm and killer looks making her a popular filler subject for the news channels.

“You're Octavia Blake.”

“Yes. And I need you to help me keep my brother safe.”

He's still more than skeptical, but he listens as she explains.

“He hasn't told me anything, but  I came home at 3 am last night to find my brother sitting in the dark with blood on his clothes, and he hasn't stopped acting weird ever since. When I got to the office this morning, a big window to the street was smashed and there was a _bullet-hole_ in the wall. Him and Clarke Griffin, his consultant, have been holed up in her office, and I've heard them talking about 'finding proof' and 'going public'.”

“Was he injured?”

“Just a few cuts. He says he got them when the window broke and he tried to help Clarke pick up the pieces.”

“Did he say why?”

“He says it was an accident.”

“Miss Blake, I don't know your brother, so I can't judge if he's been acting strange. But coming home late, minor injuries from an accident and an increased focus on his work... those are not things I can make a case of.”

She slaps down a plastic folder and starts pulling out what look like printouts from a surveillance camera.

“I've got surveillance photos from one of the other companies in the office, showing the houses on the other side of the street...”

He wonders how she got her hands on those – in his experience, security companies don't like to hand out surveillance material freely.

“Someone's on that roof, and I think it's a sniper. Compare this image with one of the same view later that night – there's nothing there.”

She jabs at a dark spot on one of the pictures with a slender finger. A sniper may be a bold interpretation, but Lincoln has to admit that one picture shows what could be someone crouching on the rooftop of a six-story office building, and the other one the exact same view but without the hunched figure. It's still not much.

“If your brother doesn't want to report being shot at and no one else got injured in the incident, I still can't open an investigation on this.”

“Clarke got injured too. There were cuts on her cheek the next day, but she says she tripped when cleaning up the broken glass and fell into the shards.”

From her tone of voice, Lincoln gathers the young woman doesn't buy the perfectly plausible explanation. He's heard similar explanations himself, mostly from battered women, and they'd always be plausible if the incidents didn't occur so often. For a moment, he wonders if there really is a victim here and it isn't Octavia's brother.

“Is she willing to report the incident?”

Octavia shakes her head. “I told you, they're in this together. They're trying to uncover something; something dangerous.”

Lincoln looks from the crouching figure on the surveillance photo to her frantic expression and sighs. He hates having to do this, but a hunch, a shadow on a rooftop and an obscure story about her brother being shot that ends in some other woman getting injured – it's not enough. As much as he'd like to be able to look at her for a little longer, there's no need to get her hopes up.

“I'm very sorry, Miss Blake, but if neither of the two want to report it and there's no immediate risk of them or anyone else getting hurt, then I can't help you.”

With that, he turns towards his laptop to close the file he had opened in his eagerness to get started on something – only for her to slam it shut, almost trapping his hand in the process.

“Don't you dare brush me off like that!” Octavia Blake's eyes are practically blazing with fury, and he can't help but be a little impressed by her tenacity.

Nonetheless, this sort of behaviour is inacceptable.

“Miss Blake, step back and calm down or I'll have to arrest you for assaulting an officer.”

For a moment, she's leaning on his desk, breathing heavily. Then she sits back on the visitor's chair and her expression changes, going from wild anger to an almost forlorn look.

“You have to do something, please! He's the only one I have.”

Lincoln stares at her for a moment, mesmerized not by her beauty but by the contrast between her pain-filled face and the tension in her body that speaks of strength and of how much it must have cost her to beg for help just now.

Sighing, he opens up his laptop again. It's not like he has anything better to do.

“Alright. Tell me everything you know.”

 

***

 

Sometimes Monty wonders what it would be like to be able to switch off his brain. Right now, he wants nothing more than to banish all thoughts of Octavia Blake raving about snipers and asking him to hack into the servers of a security company and windows supposedly breaking from a thrown stapler only to be replaced with bulletproof glass. He just wants to enjoy the here and now, because the here and now is Nathan, half-asleep with his head on Monty's outstretched arm, sweaty skin glistening in the glow from the street lamp outside the window.

After celebrating their successful first phase with the team with three Long Island Iced Teas and an indeterminate number of shots, Monty finally got up the courage to kiss the campaign manager when they shared a cab back from the bar – only to get violently sick the moment they exited the car at his house. Nathan tucked him into bed and left, returning with take-out the next day, and now here they are and Monty still doesn't understand how any of this happened, but he's not going to complain.

And yet...

“Do you believe them? About the stapler Clarke supposedly threw at Bellamy?”

“I wouldn't put it past her, to be honest.”

“Me neither. But for it to break that window... I mean, angry Clarke is scary, but she's hardly the Hulk. And then there's that stuff Octavia has been on about....”

Nathan turns onto his side to look at him, smiling drowsily. “Your idea of pillow talk is revolting. But if you ask me, Octavia just has a lively imagination, especially when it comes to perceived threats to her brother.”

Nathan starts planting soft kisses on Monty's chest, and for a moment, he lets himself get carried away in the happy buzz. But as soon as he closes his eyes, Monty remembers Octavia's frantic expression.

“But come on, a sniper on the roof? That's a bit much, even for someone with a lively imagination.”

Monty regrets this statement immediately, because it makes the kissing stop. “She thinks she saw a sniper?!”

“She thinks she saw a bullet-hole. She suspects that there must have been a sniper.”

“ _Is_ there a bullet-hole?”

“I haven't really been in the conference room since, so I couldn't tell. But you're right, her story could be easily verified...” Monty trails off, thinking, only to be interrupted by Nathan's groan.

“Oh hell no. We're not driving to the office right now to look for a bullet-hole.”

“But...”

“We have to be back there in,” Nathan peers at the blinking numbers on Monty's alarm clock “seven hours anyway. You can't wait that long?”

Nathan's hands are now running up and down his chest, with a very promising tendency towards down, but still Monty ponders the question. _This, this is exactly why you've been single for the last four years_ , he mentally berates himself.

“I could distract you, you know.”

And before Monty can naively ask how, Nathan proceeds to do just that. With a happy sigh, Monty lets his head fall back. He can probably manage to turn off his brain for a little while.

 

***

 

Clarke enters her office the next morning to find her team assembled there, Monty perched on the edge of her desk, Miller sitting in the visitors' chair next to him, and Jasper and Raven on the sofa. The only one missing is Wells, who left just before the shooting to take his wife on a romantic getaway for their anniversary.

“What is this, an intervention?”

It was intended as a joke, but Monty, who has apparently been chosen as their speaker, answers dead seriously.

“Yes. Are you gonna tell us why Octavia came by yesterday, raving about bullet-holes, and made me pull images from two nights ago from the security cameras downstairs?”

“I don't know... Did she seem unwell?” Clarke may not be a fan of lying, but if there's one thing she had to learn doing what she does it's how to redirect people's attention. Unfortunately, all her powers of obfuscation are lost on her teammates. Monty lifts both his index fingers and purses his lips, a slightly more polite way to tell her to shut up.

“Don't even try. We checked the conference room – there are three holes in the wall that could be bullet-holes. So between that and the new, _bulletproof_ window, it looks a lot like someone tried to shoot you.”

Sighing, Clarke sits down on her office chair. Deep down, she knew they wouldn't get away with keeping this from the team for long – the explanation for the thick new windowpanes alone was met with a lot of skepticism. And really, the only reason she kept her friends in the dark was to keep them safe, but maybe that would be best achieved by letting them know to be on their guard. Looking around at the people she trusts the most in the world, Clarke makes a decision.

“Alright, someone did shoot. But I wasn't the target – Bellamy was.”

Her team erupts into excited chatter, ranging from questions about the how and why to complaints about not being told earlier. She's about to tell them to pipe down when a new voice cuts in from the door.

“I told you they'd find out. That's what you get for trying to lie to a bunch of geniuses.” Blake is grinning as he says it, clearly happy to be able to say 'I told you so'. For someone so prone to drawing attention to himself, Blake is amazingly adept at sneaking up on her, Clarke thinks irritatedly. “Should I explain, or do you want to do the honours?”

She doesn't want to imagine the kind of speech Blake would unleash on them if she let him, so Clarke gives the team a quick recap herself. If she makes it very clear that Blake carries absolutely no responsibility for any of the dead civilians and that no one is to imply otherwise, well, that's just to speed things up. Idly, Clarke wonders what it means for the state of her sanity that she's able to do a 'quick recap' of an international incident with a hundred fatalities and a subsequent cover-up. 

For a few moments, there's silence as everyone takes in the information.

“What can we do?” Monty's unwavering loyalty, it seems, won't be swayed by even the craziest story. If Clarke still had doubts about telling her team, they are now completely erased. Not to mention, they haven't gotten very far in their investigation because Raven, a 'hardware girl at heart' as she puts it, has nowhere near the level of hacking skills Monty does. 

“For now, you can all concentrate on keeping things going and not drawing any attention to this until we've found proof and people willing to testify. We'll all continue with the next steps of the campaign as planned, except for Monty – we'll need you to find everything you can about everyone who might have been involved. Can you do that?”

“I'm gonna need help. This requires digging on a scale that I can't pull off alone.”

Clarke exchanges a hesitant glance with Blake. Bring another person into this mess? They didn't even want to tell the team, and yet more and more people are finding out.

“I know a guy,” Raven supplies before they've reached a decision. “In fact, you know him too, Clarke, from college – his name's Wick.”

After digging through her dusty memories, Clarke thinks she remembers a cheery IT major who followed Raven around like a puppy for a while after the Finn-disaster. “Hacker Hottie?”

Blake's eyebrows shoot up at the nickname, but Raven just laughs.

“Exactly. He's been doing some interesting stuff lately; very discreetly. The FBI was only onto him _once_ , and they couldn't prove a thing.”

“Sounds like a real dreamboat.” Blake's voice is dripping with sarcasm.

“Sounds like he's perfect for the job. Can I have him?” Monty sounds genuinely excited at the prospect of getting a hacker friend to play with, Clarke notes with amusement. Raven shrugs.

“I should still have his number somewhere.”

That in turn makes Clarke raise her eyebrows, but Raven only smirks and starts going through her contacts.

“Maybe we should also create a diversion. Make them think you're too busy with other things to dig into old military files.”

Clarke likes Miller's idea. “You've got something in mind?” She's already wondering if maybe it's time to let Octavia loose again, but Jasper beats her to it.

“I do. But you're not going to like it...”

To Clarke's confusion, Jasper pulls a gossip magazine out of his messenger bag, flicks through it and lays it out on the desk before her. Blake steps closer to peer over her shoulder, only to laugh out loud as he sees the page. Clarke shakes her head.

“Absolutely not.”

“But it's already _right there_...”

What's _right there_ are several pictures showing Blake with various women at different events – one of whom just so happens to be Clarke. Judging by the dress she's wearing, a dark blue silk gown, it was taken at a swanky fundraiser they attended about a week ago to introduce Blake to some people she knows. And if Jasper's poorly suppressed grin wasn't enough to tip her off what he's thinking, the photo caption should do the trick. It reads: _Taking Washington by storm: Bellamy Blake is winning voters and conquering hearts._ Clarke rolls her eyes. Wells has attended just as many events with Blake, and yet he doesn't have to put up with this kind of bullshit.

Miller nods appreciatively at Jasper's magazine. “You wouldn't even have to do much – you're scheduled for three public appearances this week anyway. Just look intimate, maybe have dinner alone some evening...”

Attracted by Blake's laughter and Clarke's horrified expression, Raven has ambled up to them by now and is glancing at the magazine, whistling through her teeth.

“Damn, Blake, I'd say you're already selling it.”

That at least shuts him up, and now Clarke isn't the only one blushing anymore. Raven's right, she notices with another look at the picture of the two of them – Blake, sharply-dressed in a black tuxedo, is not looking at the senator she's introducing him to but at her. And while she has noticed the force of his gaze before, she's never spared a thought to how it looks like from the outside. Now she knows: Blake's eyes are fixed on her like she's the only person in the world.

“I was _listening_. You're supposed to look at people when you're listening to them.”

“And you're doing a _very_ good job.” There is barely-concealed laughter in Raven's voice. “So now all we need is for Clarke to look a little lovestruck, and bam, we've got us a torrid affair.”

Clarke glares at her friend. _Torrid affair?_ This is getting more and more ridiculous, and she's about to shut it down, but by now Monty has seen the picture too. “You do look good together.”

There's definitely a smile tugging at Miller's lips, which earns him a death glare from his boss. The campaign manager remains unfazed. “We _have_ been thinking about going this route, remember? You wanted to keep your private life out of it back then, but I'd say that ship has sailed when we brought in Octavia. And I mean, if the media have already picked someone out...”

Which doesn't exactly speak for the media, Clarke thinks - half her interactions with Blake are venomous jabs and near-violent disputes, and yet this stupid magazine has somehow managed to pick the one fraction of a second they were not at each other's throats. And since when are the celeb mags concerning themselves with politicians?

“I second the motion. I could drop a few hints on twitter and Instagram – subtle, of course.” 

Clarke can't believe it when Jasper's suggestion is met with approving nods. “Oh, so this is a team decision now?”  

Blake looks back and forth between the magazine and Clarke, and dread rises within her.

“What do you say, Miss Griffin – would you like to have dinner with me?”

Everything in her screams No. She's always been careful not to appear in the spotlight, preferring to operate from the background, and she hates the idea of giving that up - and to pretend to make googly-eyes at Blake, of all people!

But there's a challenging smirk on his face, the kind that makes her do stupid things.

“One dinner, that's it.”

Two hours later, Wick appears, enthusiastically hugs Raven and then enthusiastically starts to set up a LAN with Monty. In fact, he does everything enthusiastically, and while Clarke thinks his sheer energy would get on her nerves sooner rather than later, Raven only smiles mildly. Which is not, Clarke knows, a very common sight.

Wick and Monty hit it off immediately, and within minutes they're off in their own world, following trails to God-knows-where while the rest of the team try to focus on the comparatively boring task of continuing with Blake's campaign.

Jasper at least appears cheered up at being allowed to fabricate a romance for his notoriously private boss and their glamorous client: After making reservations for two at an intimate Italian restaurant, Jasper commandeers Blake's twitter to announce that he's 'looking forward' to dining at the place this week. If the hack who deemed a political candidate gossip fodder wants to follow up on their story, they've handed it to them on a silver platter. For the first time in years, Clarke apparently has a date.

 _So it begins,_ Clarke thinks with entirely appropriate gloom.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm giving Monty more space than he gets on the show because he is awesome, and while I like Jasper, I think the writers are forcing his importance a bit. Also, yes, I've given Wells a wife. She won't play a big role, but he deserves to be alive and happy, and if he was ever in love with Clarke, that's in the past.  
> I'm starting to get annoyed by the fact that Clarke still calls Bellamy by his last name, but alas, she insists.  
> 


	10. Chapter 10

Apparently, hacking into the Ministry of Defense's servers for classified information requires time and quiet as well as unlimited amounts of caffeine and sweets, and so Clarke leaves Monty and Wick to it and grudgingly returns to her other tasks. After all, she still has a campaign to boost, Blake has donors to woo, and Clarke finds out that the answer to 'What happens after someone shoots at you' is: Surprisingly little.

Even after the shattered window pane is replaced with bulletproof glass, Clarke stays away from windows for a few days and flinches at loud noises, but everything remains quiet. Gradually, Clarke is starting to wonder if she imagined it all. Even Blake is exactly the same as he was before – obstinate, belligerent, and smirking smugly _all the damn time_. It's as if he never broke down under the weight of his guilt, never ripped off her clothes and made her moan out loud.

Then again, isn't that exactly what she wanted - to pretend that nothing ever happened between them? If she wants them to get through this alive, that's how things will continue. She needs to concentrate on the case, not on Bellamy Blake's coffee eyes.

It takes a full day for Monty and Wick's efforts to yield the first results, and Clarke, not by nature a patient person, has to force herself to concentrate on anything other than the topic she's itching to tackle right now.

She has finally managed to get her mind on track and is putting together talking points for Blake's upcoming appearance at a union event when someone slams a piece of paper down with such force that the vase of lilies on her desk sways dangerously. From the clenched fist before her, she looks up to the man himself standing in front of her, his face filled with rage.

“How long have you known?”

“Good morning Mister Blake...”

He cuts her off, leaning closer so he's looming threateningly into her personal space. “Don't give me that 'Mister Blake'-shit. How long have you known that it was your buddy's father who gave the order?”

“My buddy's... Thelonious?”

The angry grimace distorts itself into a sneer.

“Of course you're on a first name basis. Is that why you were so eager to help? Were you hoping to cover it up before I found out that your people are neck-deep in this mess?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about. Please calm down.”

“I am talking about this.” He jabs at the file on the desk and she follows his index finger to a name at the top: _Thelonious Jaha._ Clarke freezes for a moment.

“Close the door and sit down, please.”

Her command must have taken him off-guard, because he instinctively obeys before asking: “Why?”

“Because I expect Wells to return to the office this morning, and as you correctly pointed out, that's his father's name on that file. If he is involved, I don't want Wells to find out like this.”

He closes the door and returns to the desk, still scowling. “Unless he already knows.”

“I refuse to believe that.”

“Yeah, well, even a princess doesn't get whatever she wants.”

“Oh shut it with the princess thing!” Clarke snaps and immerses herself in the document before her. It's not a lot, but it quite clearly traces the chain of command for Blake's team at the time of the mission back to one person: Her best friend's Dad, Clarke's godfather, her mother's best friend.

“Where did you even get that?”

“Raven's guy just gave it to me on the way in.”

Clarke feels a flash of annoyance. She'll have to talk to _Raven's guy_ about just handing out important files without telling her first. Sure, she would have shown Blake the file anyway, but still, she'd like to be more in control on this.

“Is it possible?”

“Yes. He was one of the higher-ups for our unit; his name's also in the non-classified records I looked into before.”

Clarke tries to digest the information, accompanied by a parade of memories of Thelonious Jaha, smiling and jovial, at birthday parties and Christmas dinners, giving her piggyback rides and settling childish disputes between her and Wells. Then she puts them in the locked box at the back of her mind where she keeps memories of her father and the idea of being a doctor and her shortlived dreams of a future with Finn.

“Alright. Tell Monty and Wick to find anything that corroborates this file – anything that connects Thelonious Jaha to missions like yours, to the people involved in them...”

He looks like he wants to protest being sent on errands but she doesn't let him speak.

“I _am_ on your side. But don't ever yell at me in my own office again.”

She lowers her head to inspect the files once more before she can catch his reaction, silently dismissing him. When she does look up a few seconds later, he has left without a word, and now it is Clarke who smirks.

 

***

 

Telling Wells that she suspects his father authorized and then covered up the massacre of innocent civilians is the hardest thing Clarke has ever done. He looks relaxed and happy when he comes in later that morning, and Clarke feels incredibly guilty at the prospect of destroying that look. Since the shooting, she has forced herself to refrain from calling her best friend because she wanted to let him have a few days of peace and quiet – only to plop him down in the middle of a hurricane upon his return.

By the time she's finished telling the story and showing Wells the file, her friend's face is filled with barely restrained anger. She expected nothing less – unlike Clarke and her mother, Wells and Thelonious are close, and she can understand him not wanting to believe that the man he looks up to is involved in this.

“You're kidding me, right? That story sounds insane – a civilian massacre, covered-up for more than a decade. And you're dragging my Dad into this?”

“I know what it sounds like, that's why we're looking for proof. And we'll look for more before we accept that your father might be involved. But at this point, I believe Blake's saying the truth.”

“Because of your _gut_?” Wells has learned that Clarke saying she believes someone is not generally based on hard evidence. Normally, he accepts her judgments without question, but now his voice is derisive.

“He may be insufferable, but he's a good man.”

“What are you basing that on? His pro-choice politics? The way he cares for his sister? Because in case you forgot, those are all things _we_ staged. He's a good man because _we_ made him look like a good man. God, Clarke, I know you're good at manipulating people, but now you've actually managed to fool yourself.”

Wells' voice is rising in volume, and normally Clarke would urge anyone speaking to her like that to calm down immediately. But she can't exactly expect him to take the news calmly.

“We didn't make those things up, they were already a part of him. We just showed that part to the public. I trust him, Wells.”

“So now you're going to ruin my father's reputation?”

“Not unless I have to.”

As her best friend and long-time colleague, Wells knows it's best to be calm and rational with her – many others have been fooled by her appearance into thinking she can be intimidated with force and bluster. Breathing out deeply, Wells visibly restrains himself.

“Clarke, you know I respect your instinct, but you've been wrong before. Especially when it comes to the honest, puppy-eyed good person-types. It's your weak spot...”

Once again, Wells knows her too well. But right now, Clarke wonders if he's underestimating her. She cuts him off. “How many of our clients have tried to lie to me before?”

Wells pauses, apparently counting examples in his head. “About a handful, I'd say.”

“And how many got away with it?”

This time, her friend's silence lasts longer even though she knows there are fewer examples to count. “None.”

“That's right. _No one_ gets away with lying to me. You're my best friend, Wells. I'm not going to let you get hurt, and I'm not going to let your Dad get hurt if he's innocent. If Blake is trying to manipulate me, if he's lying, I will _eviscerate_ him. I will destroy his career more thoroughly than any smear campaign ever could, and then I'll put him in prison. But if his story's true, I need to help him. And I need to know if you're with me.”

Wells is silent for longer than she's comfortable with, and Clarke can feel panic rising within her at the thought that her best friend might walk out on her.

“Please tell me you gave that speech to Blake too.”

Clarke doesn't know what she expected, but that wasn't it. “I haven't, why?”

“That was scary, and I think it couldn't hurt to remind him how scary you can be.”

Clarke laughs, relieved. If Wells is joking around already, that means...

“I'm with you, Clarke. You know I always am. I just need to be sure you know what you're doing.”

“I know what I'm doing.”

“Good. But could you maybe tell Blake about how you're going to _eviscerate_ him and let me watch? I have a feeling I won't be having a lot of fun in the weeks to come.”

Clarke wants to tell him she's sorry about what she found, about what she's prepared to do to his Dad if necessary. Instead, she lays her hand over his on the table. “I'm with you too, you know.”

Wells swallows hard but turns his hand over on the table to squeeze hers.

“I know.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I'm not happy with this chapter, but those conversations needed to happen before The Date. But why, why did I do a military-themed cover-up? I don't have the faintest idea how anything military-related works! (I'm freaking out a little bit, tbh) I just really hope you're willing to accept plotholes and handwaving in exchange for Bellarke feels and fun group conversations.


	11. Chapter 11

Work on both Blake's campaign and their case continues, and before Clarke knows it, their 'date' rolls around. She's determined not to make a big deal of it, just a quick dinner, but Raven and Jasper foil that plan: They appear at her office with a fresh dress Raven must have picked up from her apartment ( _honestly that's not what the spare key is for_ ), Jasper whines about making the ruse believable and Raven glares at her until Clarke gives in and changes into the dress - which is noticeably sexier than her usual work clothes - and freshens up her make-up.

Raven makes her promise she'll at least pretend to be excited about going out to dinner with a man, but the trouble is, that is precisely how Clarke does _not_ want to think about this. She's well aware that Blake is a man, sometimes too much so, and she does not need any further help remembering that fact. Hell, she still calls him by his last name even though no one else on her team does, just to keep up the pretense that they haven't seen each other in the throes of passion. And there was _a lot_ of passion _,_ Clarke thinks and has to stop herself for the millionth time from revisiting the memory.

Still, a part of her feels pleased when she emerges from her office and catches Blake do a double-take as he takes in her low-cut, dark red dress, looking for a moment as if he'd forgotten how to form words. Trying to ignore the spark shooting through her at the way his eyes go dark, Clarke smiles smugly and stalks past him to the elevator.

“Shall we?”

Unfortunately, her brief moment of elation flees far too quickly, and her thoughts are soon back to all the things she could be doing right now that would be more useful than going on a fake date with Bellamy Blake, not to mention the less-than-tempting prospect of reading about it on some gossip blog or in a magazine.

“You look like you're going to your own execution, not on a romantic date.” Of course Blake has picked up on her mood, not that it was difficult to guess from their awkward elevator ride.

“Well, I'm not a romantic person.”

“I _never_ would have guessed.” Since they're walking side by side and he's not looking at her right now, Clarke allows herself to roll her eyes at his blatant sarcasm.

“Why, are you?” Clarke doesn't know what possessed her to ask – does she honestly want to hear his opinions on romance now? Then again, they can't walk all the way to the restaurant in silence, and she needs something to distract her from the fact that she feels a little jolt shoot through her every time their arms brush against each other.

“I've been known to bring a woman flowers.”

“Oh well, then you must be the epitome of romance.” Clarke can't quite keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Just that flowers aren't particularly romantic if you give them to a different woman every other week. And there were a _lot_ of women in that magazine spread.”

Blake shoots her a side-eyed look and grins. “Jealous?”

“Not in the least. Just worried, as your political consultant, that your womanizing will come back to bite you in the ass one day.”

“If you must know, my 'womanizing' days are over – the newest photo apart from the one with you was taken several months ago.”

That surprises Clarke. “Why?”

“For one thing, I got a little busy once I decided I wanted to run for senator. And for another,” he shrugs, “I don't know, I guess I just got bored with the serial dating.”

Clarke doesn't know what to reply to that.

“What about you? Been on any non-fake dates recently?” Blake seems genuinely interested.

Thankfully, Clarke is saved from replying when they arrive at the restaurant. What would she have told him – _I got my heart broken in college, broke my best friend's heart in turn and then decided to stay the hell away from love?_

It may have been the short walk in the mild evening air or their unusually light and peaceful conversation, but when they take their seats at a table by the window, Clarke is feeling almost relaxed. If this is how the evening will continue, it might not be quite so bad.

It helps that the food is spectacular, surpassed only by the rich red wine Clarke orders with her meat course. Neither of them force conversation, which Clarke is happy about, if a little surprised – considering their usual dynamic, the silence is surprisingly comfortable, broken only by the occasional casual remark or praise of the food. By the time the waiter brings their dessert, Clarke has almost managed to forget that she's been coerced into coming here by the traitors who call themselves her friends.

Looking up from a divine chocolate mousse, Clarke notices Blake watching her once more, in that way he has that makes her want to crawl into his head and find out what he's thinking. Right now, apparently, he feels like sharing his thoughts anyway.

“You know, I've done some research on you too....”

“You mean you had Miller google me?”

“You underestimate me.”

Clarke raises an eyebrow skeptically.

“I googled you myself.”

His pompous tone teases a laugh from her. “I'm flattered.”

“You should be. These hands,” he wiggles them in the air, an uncharacteristically silly gesture, “are not made for pointless tasks. But there's almost nothing to be found about you from before Griffin and Associates. All I found was your valedictorian speech in your prep school newspaper and the fact that you enrolled at Johns Hopkins Med and never graduated.” The teasing smile has faded from his face by now, replaced by the intense scrutiny she has come to expect from him, and Clarke knows what he's going to ask next. “So how did a med school drop-out become Clarke Griffin, legendary reputation-fixer?”

“Is that your plan for this evening - to ply me with expensive wine and find out all my secrets?”

“You were the one who ordered the driest Syrah on the menu, so I'd say not much plying was needed. But yes, I admit – I do want to know your secrets.”

A shiver runs down her spine as he lays his left hand on the table, so close to her right that their fingertips are almost touching. Clarke quickly raises her glass and takes a long draught of wine, desperate to break the electric current that seems to be flowing between them.

If Blake noticed her getting flustered, he doesn't let on. “After all, you know all about me. I feel a little outgunned.”

She considers him for a moment. There's a challenging half-smile on his face, but his eyes are warm, inviting her to trust him. And maybe she should – she's practically put her life in his hands already. It's not like it's actually a secret why she dropped out, just something she doesn't like to talk about.

“I quit med school because my father died and left me his firm – Griffin and Associates.”

“You inherited your consulting business?!”

It's strange that he didn't know that, Clarke thinks at his surprised tone. Then again, their homepage doesn't exactly detail their company history, and other than its name, Clarke didn't take anything over from her father's business. By the time she had recovered from his death and made the decision to continue his work, Jake Griffin's old associates and most of his clients had left, and she'd started pretty much from the bottom.

“Wait, so you actually have zero background in politics, law _or_ communication?”

“That didn't stop me from saving your ass,” Clarke snaps. She knew their peace wouldn't last, but she still feels a little disappointed. If nothing else, she thought he respected her by now.

Blake quickly adopts a more conciliatory tone: “That's not what I meant. I'm just saying... it couldn't have been easy.”

It wasn't, but Clarke has never been one to dwell on hurdles she's already taken, and she got the impression that he wasn't either.

“I had a lot of support. Wells is actually a Harvard law alum, he quit his job to help me. Jasper's a poli sci and communications major we recruited straight out of an internship at the White House Communications Department - I had to promise him he doesn't have to wear a suit to work. And you've seen what Monty and Raven can do – I could not have done it without them.”

“Still... I didn't expect that.” His tone, part surprise, part admiration, soothes her ruffled feathers. “Didn't you want to continue med school?”

This is getting awfully personal, and despite the drowsy lull brought on by the wine and heavy food and candlelight, Clarke's instinct is to change the topic and keep him and his damned soulful eyes at bay. But out of nowhere, the thought shoots through her mind that her father would have liked him, and so she clamps down on her instinct and keeps talking.

“It was the hardest decision I ever made. My mother was livid when I told her about dropping out, she always wanted me to follow in her footsteps and become a surgeon, and I always thought I would. But when my father died... Griffin and Associates was his life.” Clarke tapers off for a moment, fighting to keep her voice steady. It's been eight years, but she still remembers her father so vividly – his broad smile, his enthusiastic cheers at soccer games, his idealism... She takes another sip of her wine and pushes the memories aside.

“This sounds hard to believe considering the kind of stunts we sometimes pull for our clients, but my father actually wanted to change the world for the better. He believed that sometimes ideas that benefit the greater good come from people who are at a disadvantage making their voices heard in public, or who get caught up in political scheming, and he wanted to give those people a shot. That's what it was all about to him, not covering up sex scandals and the like. And while we do sometimes handle cases like that, to this day, I've never taken on a client without being sure that they're innocent and have the potential to do good.”

Blake has been listening intently, one hand still on the table while the other is playing with the stem of his wine glass.

“How do you decide if they have that potential?”

“I listen to my gut. It sounds cliché, but that's really all it comes down to in the end.”

“So I'm guessing I haven't disappointed your gut yet?”

For once, Clarke allows herself to be a tiny bit dramatic, revelling in his curious gaze as she takes another slow sip of wine. Then she places her hand back on the table, repeating his gesture from before. This time, their fingertips touch.

“Not so far.”

Two days later, the gossip magazines come out and Clarke finds that very same moment captured in print. The team cheers at the proof that their ruse worked, but Blake shoots her another one of those _looks_ and Clarke has to force herself to turn away from him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swore to myself that I would not end this chapter with a needy note about being nervous. Instead, I want to thank you all for leaving kudos and amazing comments and being just the sweetest. Writing this is twice as much fun knowing you enjoy reading it.


	12. Chapter 12

The picture of Clarke and him looking completely engrossed in each other at the restaurant is apparently following Bellamy around, because when he gets home, he finds it on the open page of a magazine spread out on his coffee table. For one paranoid second, he wonders if it's a threat and someone is going to try and kill him again. Then he notices the canvas bag by the door and the state of his normally pristine living-room: Boots kicked off before the carpet, a bowl of popcorn and some hot chocolate on the table, a blanket draped over the sofa – Octavia has never been shy about making herself at home anywhere.

His sister has been out of town for a few days, meeting work contacts in New York as well as giving an interview for a women's magazine and a speech at a girls-in-science event, and he was more than happy to know her a safe distance away from everything that's been going on here. Not that Octavia knows about any of that, even though Bellamy knows he's going to have to tell her eventually, no matter how much he'd like to believe that he can keep her safe all by himself.

Octavia emerges from the guest bedroom right now in sweatpants and a baggy sweater and notices him, still holding the gossip mag open in his hands. Instead of throwing herself at him for a hug, as she usually does, his sister nods at the magazine in question.

“Care to tell me what's going on there? When I left, you were still referring to Clarke as a 'spoiled Princess', and I had to threaten you with bodily harm so you'd at least admit that she's doing a great job. And now suddenly you're dating?”

Bellamy winces. Admittedly, he may have been a little unfair to the woman who saved his career. He had initially thought her reputation as the best 'fixer' in town was simply due to knowing the right people, and he'd only let Miller talk him into working with her because he thought at the very least she'd introduce him to some rich potential donors. She did, but she did so much more, and he's ashamed to admit how much he underestimated her. Clarke has a brilliant strategical mind, and from the calm way she reacted to being shot at, he can guess she's not quite the sheltered little princess he thought her to be. But even if his respect for her has increased over their partnership, his sister is never going to buy the lie they're presenting to the media.

“No, we're not. We're distracting people with gossip while we're uncovering a cover-up of a war crime.” Spoken out loud, it sounds more than a little ridiculous.

“A fake date? What is this, a wacky rom com?” Bellamy cocks an eyebrow. He mentions a war crime, and this is what she focuses on? But then, it seems his sister simply needed a moment to process the information. “Wait, you're doing what?”

“Maybe you should sit down. It's a long story.”

And it really is, Bellamy realizes when his stomach starts to growl. By the time he gets to the part where they got the team on board, or rather, the team invited themselves on board, he's finished half the popcorn.

Octavia sits in stunned silence for a moment, and he makes the mistake of assuming she's shocked or overwhelmed. He really should know better by now.

“And it didn't occur to you to tell me any of this sooner?!” It turns out her stony expression was, in fact, a sign of anger.

“You were going out of town anyway.”

“And I wouldn't have if I'd known what was going on. I mean, I had a suspicion...”

“What? How?”

“Please, Bell, I'm not an idiot. I come home to find you sitting in the dark in your own apartment, with blood on your shirt, telling me not to switch on any lights, and then I find out the window at Clarke's office is broken because someone shot at it. Just because you said nothing happened doesn't mean there weren't bullet-holes in that conference room.”

Now it is him who's stunned, although really, in hindsight he doesn't know why he thought he could keep this from his nosy little sister.

“In fact, if you'd told me about this maybe I wouldn't have gone to the police.”

“You did what?”

“I spoke to a Detective. I took some photos of the bullet-holes with my cell phone, and I had Monty pull up the images from the security camera downstairs. There was someone on the roof that night.”

Bellamy remembers Monty mentioning something about those surveillance images, but somehow, between investigating the cover-up and his fake date with Clarke, Octavia's involvement had completely slipped his mind.

“We decided not to bring in the police. We don't want anyone to know about the failed hit before we've got enough proof to go public.”

“Well, you should have told me that.”

“Dammit, O, why did you have to stick your nose in this?” Just the thought of her anywhere near this mess is making him anxious.

“Why do _you_ have to be so fucking stubborn? I know you think you can take care of everything by yourself, but you can't expect me not to worry.”

Bellamy tries to rein in his anger. Their rare fights have always had a habit of spiraling out of control fast, but this is ridiculous – is he actually angry at his own sister for caring about his well-being? That's a little hypocritical, considering he's only recently stopped giving her boyfriends intimidating speeches.

“You shouldn't worry about me.”

“Well, I do. Come on, Bell, you took care of me my whole life – is it so hard to understand that I want to make sure you're alright too?”

He looks at his little sister, wondering at which point she's grown from a rebellious teenager into this confident woman – and how he missed it. He'll always consider her his responsibility, but maybe she's right, maybe it's time to let her help him.

“I want to know what's going on with you. And it's not just the fact that someone tried to kill you - you've also carried around this enormous secret for seventeen years. It must have been hard.”

_It wasn't that hard,_ he wants to reply, _because I did it for you._ It's true, but he doesn't want her to feel he's pinning this on her. And if he's honest with himself he knows he didn't just keep quiet for her sake. He was also selfish and cowardly and just wanted to leave that horrible night behind him, and now he'll have to deal with it himself.

He shrugs. “I kept busy.”

Octavia watches him shrewdly for a moment. “You know it's not your fault, right? All those deaths... they're not on you.”

Bellamy wants to believe her, he really does, but he's become so used to the niggling guilt at the back of his mind that it's hard to just switch it off. Instead of replying, he gets up to pop a frozen pizza in the oven and get a beer from the fridge.

“What, no fake date tonight?” Apparently, Octavia has taken his silence as a cue not to push the topic further, and he's glad about it. This too is a sign of how much his sister has grown – just a few years ago, she would have pushed him to keep talking, determined to make him confront his demons and find a solution. 

“Clarke doesn't want us to fake-move too fast.”

Octavia laughs. “Of course. You wouldn't want to make it look unrealistic.”

“I'll have you know we did a very good job of pretending we don't hate each other.” Well, he didn't have to pretend _that_ hard – he's had real dates with less engaging conversation. He's almost looking forward to a repeat, although who knows if there will be one.

“I don't even know if we'll keep this up – if we find enough to go public soon, we won't need the cover anymore. But you need to stop talking to the police. If they're still investigating this...”

“They're not. I called the Detective working on it today and he said he doesn't have any leads to follow as long as you and Clarke don't want to report the shooting and he doesn't have the bullets to try and trace them.”

“So he'll stop investigating?”

"For now, I guess. He asked me to tell him if there are any new developments.”

“There aren't so far. And when we do find something – please promise you won't tell him anything without talking to me first.”

She hesitates. “Alright. But if I have a feeling you're in danger, I'm bringing in the police whether you like it or not.”

With that, she picks up the remote and switches on the TV, apparently deciding that the last word has been spoken on the issue. 

He lets Octavia put on a documentary about melting glaciers instead of the one about the Byzantine Empire Bellamy had planned for tonight, and despite the narrator's rather alarming facts about climate change, Bellamy enjoys the quality time with his sister. Between his campaign and her research trips, they spend way too little time together.

When she picks up the bowl of popcorn and her eyes fall onto the magazine once more, Octavia suddenly grins.

“You know, you really do look very into each other in that picture. Really, that is some Oscar-worthy acting.”

The implication being, of course, that he's not acting at all. And maybe he wasn't, but he sure as hell won't admit it to his sister.

“I _am_ going into politics. It's an essential skill.”

“For what it's worth, Clarke seems to have that skill too. Either that, or she doesn't hate you as much as she'd have you believe.”

Pathetically, Bellamy feels hope flaring up inside of him at the words. He's been mulling this over ever since the date – did Clarke really only reach out to him to make it look good for the paparazzi? But she hadn't even known if there were any. And besides, it wouldn't explain the way she opened up about her father and the difficulties of getting started at Griffin and Associates. None of that felt like it was for show, and the idea that it was annoys him more than it should. But there's no point dwelling on what ifs and maybes – Clarke is nothing if not dedicated, and he wouldn't put it past her to fake all the intimacy of their date just to make sure her media strategy works.

“It probably _was_ all an act, so don't start planning the wedding just yet.”

He sounds a little more disappointed than he intended, and Octavia shoots him a knowing look. Bellamy ignores her and returns his attention to the TV, trying to push all thoughts of his enigmatic consultant to the back of his mind and focus on the documentary. Unfortunately, all the sweeping shots of the icy blue Antarctic sea only remind him of Clarke's eyes.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now Octavia is properly in the know. I imagine she's been calling Lincoln three times a day to find out if he's found anything, and Lincoln gets a little annoyed but mostly tries to drag out the conversation.  
> It was kind of difficult to translate the Blake sibling-dynamic from the show, because they're older and presumably much more mature in this story, but I think I managed.  
> Also, ha, Bellamy is already falling so hard.


	13. Chapter 13

“I think we should go public.” Clarke has never been a patient person, and as quiet as everything has been, she can't shake the fear that their would-be assassin will strike again. Every time Blake leaves the office, every time she watches him climb a podium to give a speech, her stomach clenches at the thought that someone could be taking the opportunity to aim at him right now.

“With what?”

“We have the names of everyone from your CO to Thelonious Jaha's superior at the time, meaning we have the chain of command, and we have the falsified mission report Monty and Wick dug up, the one that puts you and your team somewhere else at the night of the assassination.”

It's not much, she knows that, but it has taken Monty and Wick days to even come up with this much, and she doubts they'll dig up much more simply because there probably is nothing to dig up. They'll have to rely on Bellamy's testimony and hope to sway public opinion in his favour.

“That's not enough if we don't have anyone willing to back up my testimony. And the mission report looks perfectly legitimate unless someone is willing to say that that's not where we were.”

“All the more reason to try and get some more of your team members to testify. Like you said, things like that don't tend to leave a paper trail. Several members of your team live nearby, we could try them again. I could talk to them this time, try and persuade them once more.”

“I doubt even you could nag them into endangering their lives.”

“I don't _nag_.” He looks like he wants to say something about that but doesn't. “And besides, I think every day we wait is another day they could _kill_ you. Going public may be our best bet to keep you safe. After all, what's the point of killing you once the secret's out?”

“It warms my heart that you're worried about my safety, but I don't think it's worth rushing this.”

“Don't flatter yourself, it's not just _your_ safety I'm concerned with. Every day we keep working on this in secret the risk rises that someone finds out and realizes my entire team is involved. I have a responsibility to them, too.”

For a moment, they stare at each other silently, each waiting for the other to admit defeat first. To Clarke's unending satisfaction, he does.

“So what's your plan then?”

“I'll convince them, somehow.” It's hardly a _plan_ , it's too impulsive and not likely to succeed, but Clarke needs to do _something_ or she'll go crazy. She grabs her phone and car keys – might as well start now.

 

***

 

It takes Clarke a drive of little under an hour to get to the first address Monty sends to her sat nav, and as luck would have it, someone's home. A blonde woman opens the door and confirms that her name is Harper.

Unfortunately, the moment Clarke mentions the name 'Bellamy Blake', her face shuts off and she takes a step back inside the house. But before the woman can close the door, Clarke manages to block it with the pointed toe of her high-heeled boots, wincing as the wooden edge slams painfully into the soft leather.

"Bellamy Blake is a good man. He wants to right an old wrong and people are trying to kill him for it, and if you don't help us bring them to justice, those people might succeed.”

The face visible in the slice between door and door jamb remains impassive, and Clarke is about to give up when the pressure on her foot eases up and the door opens slowly.

“Alright. Come in, quick.”

Clarke doesn't need to be asked twice.

***

 

Driving back to the office after a long, fruitful talk with Harper, Clarke can feel her body humming with excitement. Hearing Harper's version of that night seventeen years ago was still as harrowing as hearing the story for the first time from Bellamy, and Clarke could tell the other woman was struggling with the memory. But when they were through, Harper had said that she'd tell her story again if they wanted to go public.

And then there was the fact that Harper corroborated Blake's account and confirmed that he did not shoot any of the civilians. As much as Clarke trusts her gut and her gut says to trust Blake, it's still a relief to hear that he's actually innocent of this terrible crime.

When she enters the office to find Blake and Miller working in the conference room, Clarke is, possibly for the first time, excited to see him. She doesn't bother with greetings but bursts out with her good news right away.

“I've got the human trail. Someone's willing to testify.”

“Who?”

“Harper.”

“Harper? She slammed the door in my face the last time I went to see her. How the hell did you get her to talk?”

Clarke hesitates for a second. “I've found something we agree on.”

And now he finally seems to take in the good news. He moves towards her and she wonders if he'll hug her, but in the end, he stops an arm's length away, smiling broadly. It feels as if someone had switched on the sun.

He lets out a shaky little laugh and runs a hand through his hair, ruffling the hard-to-tame waves.

“We might actually have a shot at this.” He sounds as if he can't quite believe it. “So we go public?”

“We go public.”

***

 

The evening after Harper talked to Clarke, another member of the team contacts them and says he wants to testify as well, a man called Sterling. Miller sets up a TV interview with a host who had Blake on as a guest before and was very willing to let him speak freely, and they feverishly prepare for the interview. Not only do they need to make sure Blake's revelations sound concise and believable, they also need to prepare everything they've obtained legally – which, admittedly, isn't much – to send it to the District Attourney after the interview along with the three testimonies.

When the big day rolls around, everyone at the office trickles into Clarke's office to watch: Wells and Octavia have accompanied Bellamy to the studio, but everyone else is waiting here, ready to spring into action once the interview has wrapped.

While Raven, Miller, Jasper, Maya and Wick crowd around the TV screen, Clarke is anxiously pacing up and down in front of her desk. Not normally one to doubt herself, now Clarke is questioning every single decision she's made in this. Could they have found more to make a case? Did they pick the right forum with a morning show, even on a serious news channel? Should they have simply called in a press conference? But they would have had to reveal enough beforehand to tempt journalists to come, and they would lose the surprise effect they've employed so well this far. And making the revelation in the morning will give other media outlets a chance to catch up and contact them throughout the day. Wells and Miller both supported her strategy, and they have press releases prepared to go out to every news outlet the second the interview has aired, but Clarke will only rest easy once they've successfully got the ball rolling. At this point, their only chance is to generate quick and widespread public interest and support, or there's a risk that the whole thing gets swept under the rug again or that Blake and the other witnesses get prosecuted themselves.

Clarke's pacing is interrupted when Monty comes in to complete the team, looking confused and worried.

“I've found something on one of the batches of records on Blake's squad.”

“What?” Clarke's mind immediately goes to the unlikely scenario of some sort of usable proof, but then why would her friend look so somber?

“Someone's requested to see them before, eight years ago.” He pauses, and if it was anyone but Monty, Clarke would suspect they were being overly dramatic. In this case, it is more likely that he's just searching for the right words. “It was your father, Clarke. About a month before he died.”

Clarke freezes at the mention, looking at her friend incredulously. Why the hell did her father request to see records about the missions of a small team in a low-profile conflict almost a decade earlier?

The answer is sitting just out of reach, but Clarke doesn't really have time to process it because Blake's interview is starting and she needs to concentrate on the present, on him. Clarke forces herself to calm down and take a seat.

When she focuses on the screen again, the host is making introductory small-talk.

 _“_ _You've been spotted out and about with Clarke Griffin....”_

_“I'm not sure what you're asking – am I attending events with my political consultant?”_

_“_ _Well, you've also been seen having what looks like a very cozy dinner...”_ The picture from the magazine that shows him and Clarke almost holding hands at the Italian restaurant appears on a screen behind them. “ _And of course, Miss Griffin isn't just a political consultant, she's also a very attractive woman....”_

 _“_ _She is, without a doubt.”_ Blake smiles, and Clarke honest to God blushes and squirms in her chair, hoping no one notices. _Focus_ , _Clarke_ , she tells herself.

 _“_ _But, with no offense to my brilliant campaign adviser, that's not what I'd like to talk about today.”_

This is it, the point of no return. If they're wrong about this, if they fail to prove it in time, they will both be ruined. Clarke hopes with every fibre of her being that she's put her trust in the right man.

 _“_ _You see, seventeen years ago, I was present when a crime was committed, and I can't keep silent about it any longer.”_

And he tells the story that still sounds incredible every time she hears it. They've written his speech together, going over every syllable deep into the night and discussing every nuance until Clarke was ready to tear her hair out. She can practically recite along with him now, but as always, he manages to make the words his own until they burn with his passion and earnestness.

By the time he's done talking, Clarke has goosebumps.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some plot development. (And a shout-out to Bellamy's glorious hair.)  
> Since I'm not entirely sure who would be responsible for investigating a case like this and I don't want to get bogged down in details, I decided the District Attourney would take care of it. Rather than getting tangled up in details about the criminal case, I want to focus on the way they will have to rely on public opinion, because that after all is what Clarke's job is all about. And I'm guessing all we really want to see is Clarke and Bellamy being forced to work together.


	14. Chapter 14

The next day, Clarke reluctantly drags herself out of the office to meet her mother for lunch, less than enthusiastic. After Blake's explosive revelation went viral, they've been fielding press calls and tracing media reactions non-stop, and Clarke wants to keep the ball rolling. But their monthly lunch is a standing date that her mother insists on, and postponing is not an option – Dr. Abby Griffin is a busy woman, even more so now that she has been made Chief of Staff at one of the biggest and most renowned hospitals of the country. Thankfully, the restaurant her mother picked is just a block down from their building, so Clarke hopes she'll make it back quickly. Her thoughts are still on their next steps when she enters the restaurant and finds her mother sitting at a table in the back, frowning at her phone.

She gets up to kiss Clarke on the cheek, but instead of asking how her daughter is doing or starting with some small talk, her mother's voice instantly turnsserious.

“Clarke, I heard that Bellamy Blake has dragged you into claiming you're uncovering some kind of mad conspiracy, pointing fingers at people...”

“He hasn't _dragged_ me into it. I chose to help him.”

“So it's true? You really believe his ravings about military cover-ups?”

“I do. And not only that, I'm starting to find proof that he's right. And I'm starting to think....” Clarke swallows and has to force herself to continue. The information she got yesterday had almost slipped her mind in all the chaos after the interview, so she hasn't really had time to process it. “I think Dad was investigating the very same cover-up just before his death.”

Clarke expected her mother to be surprised about the news, maybe excited at the prospect of finally finding her husband's killer and bringing them to justice. Instead, the expression that settles on Abby's face looks like... guilt?

And suddenly all the pieces fall into place: Her father's investigation back then; her mother pleading with him to drop it; the fact that the name that tops the chain of command is Thelonious Jaha, her mother's old friend...

“You knew. You knew what Dad was working on.” Instead of protesting, her mother lowers her eyes, and icy realisation rises in Clarke. “And you told Thelonious.”

When her mother looks up again, there are tears in her brown eyes.

“Clarke, I never wanted any of this to happen. Thelonious was supposed to talk him out of going public...”

Clarke feels as if someone had punched her in the gut, the shock of her mother's confession so physically jarring that it makes her lash out.

“Well, he did keep him quiet, so I guess mission accomplished.”

“And shouldn't that be all the more reason for you to stay out of this? Digging it up won't bring your father back, it will only put you in danger too. I can't protect you from this. You need to convince Blake to stop.”

“And if he doesn't?”

“Then I won't be able to protect him, either.” It sounds resigned, but now that Clarke knows what her mother is capable of, what she has kept from her all these years, she thinks she detects a faint threat in the other woman's voice. It enrages her more than anything in this entire conversation did.

“You know what, Mom? We're not going to stop. Bellamy Blake is on his way to being a hero of the people. And you know what happens to heroes when they're killed, don't you? They turn into martyrs.”

Abby's eyes widen. “Please, Clarke, just get out of this while you still can. Don't get any more involved with this man. He may just be looking for attention, but he's dangerous.”

Clarke doesn't acknowledge her mother's plea. Instead, she leans closer across the table, laying her hand over her mother's in a gesture that looks warm and tender but is actually a warning, her thumb pressing almost-painfully into the soft skin between her mother's thumb and index finger.

“Not half as dangerous as you and your friends. But make no mistake, Mom – if anything happens to him, I will burn your legacy to the ground. Feel free to pass that on to Thelonious the next time you see him.”

With one last squeeze, Clarke lets go of her mother's hand and gets up, grabbing her coat and striding off without another word just as the waiter comes up to take their order. She's not hungry anymore, and she can't bear to look at her mother for another second. 

***

 

Clarke miraculously makes it back to the office in one piece, pushing through traffic in a trance. The whole team is still busy, so Clarke just walks straight past everyone and into her office, ignoring the bits of news that are being shouted at her from all directions. Shutting the door behind her, she stands quietly before her desk, staring at the picture of her Dad.

But of course the door opens again immediately, as her friends have apparently caught on that something's off with her. “Clarke? Are you alright?”

And of all of them, the person they send in to check on her is Wells.

“I had lunch with my Mom...”

“Wow, another month gone by already? Guess time flies when you're investigating a conspiracy.”

Wells' attempt to calm her down with a joke fails spectacularly.

“Wells, my Dad was investigating the same cover-up. My Mom told your Dad about it, just before the accident.”

Turning around, Clarke forces herself to meet his eyes. He stays silent for long moments, long enough for nervous fear to settle in her stomach. Then his face hardensand his fists clench by his sides as he pieces together what she's saying.

“No. I've believed your crazy story about a cover-up. I supported your trust in Bellamy before we had so much as a shred of proof that he was saying the truth. But I'm not going to let you talk me into thinking my Dad killed your Dad.”

“Wells...”

But her best friend has already stormed out. Clarke can't say that she blames him.

 ***

 

There are two ways of dealing with this – crying or having a drink. So Clarke bends down to her desk to retrieve her emergency Scotch.

“Well, that's certainly a nice view.” Rolling her eyes, Clarke straightens up to face Blake, who, as always, is smirking.

“I'll be with you in a minute.”

“Are you alright? Wells just stormed out of here looking really angry.” Does that man ever miss anything?

“I _said_ I'll be with you in a minute. I'm not your secretary, in case you forgot.”

“No, but you _are_ the person with the plan here, and we've just reached a new level. If you're having doubts about this whole thing, feel free to back out but tell me. This may just be a bit of excitement to you, but it's actually my life. My whole career, my reputation and possibly my freedom depend on this.”

Clarke finally snaps out of her daze as anger rises within her. Slamming down the bottle and glass, she advances on him.

“A bit of excitement?! I'm not a bored trophy wife playing at detective. If I do something, it's because I believe it is the right thing. But if it helps, things just got personal for me too, because apparently, my Dad was killed for investigating the same crime, possibly by my Godfather, and it may have been my own mother's fault. So if you don't trust my commitment to your case, trust this: I will find out who killed my father and bring them to justice. Is that enough for you?”

“What?” If she wasn't so upset, Clarke would cherish the fact that she managed to make him speechless for once.

“You were right. My people are neck-deep in this mess. Feel free to gloat.”

“Clarke...”

His voice is soft now, all traces of anger gone, and Clarke wonders how he does that. How does he go from yelling at her to looking like he wants to wrap her in his arms in the span of one word? And why, in the name of all that is good and holy, does it make her open her mouth and spill her fears?

“I don't know if Wells will come back.”

“He'll come back.” His voice is earnest and confident, and she wants nothing more than to believe him.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I've never seen a bunch of people as devoted to their boss as your team are to you. Wells included. They love you.”

And now the tears Clarke has fought so hard to suppress are threatening to spill, clouding her vision.

To his credit, Blake doesn't acknowledge it except for silently handing her a tissue.

“You just need to give him some time to come to terms with it.”

Clarke draws a shaky breath and blows her nose, trying to pull herself together. Maybe she'll just have to trust him on this as well as everything else.

He pours some Scotch and hands her the tumbler. “Better?”

She'll answer that question when she sees the bottom of the glass, Clarke decides.

Not that she gets around to it, because his next sentence makes her spit out the expensive 12-year-old Scotch.

“If not, you can always jump my bones again; get your mind off things.”

What follows are two minutes of violent coughing until Clarke's breathing calms down.

“Geez, Princess, I was kidding. Unless you were about to say yes -”

She slaps his arm, but despite herself, Clarke has to laugh.

“I don't sleep with my clients.” He looks like he wants to point out that that's not entirely true, but Clarke lifts a warning index finger: “Don't.”

Taking a deep breath, Clarke pulls herself together and gets back up. There is work to be done.

 ***

 

Between the knowledge that her best friend's Dad and her mother are involved in this mess and that her father died trying to uncover it, Clarke is starting to think that things could not possibly get any worse. And then she makes the mistake of voicing the thought out loud while explaining Wells' abrupt departure to Raven, so of course they do.

She's still trying to ignore the fact that she practically declared war on her own mother and that Wells hasn't come back by the end of the afternoon and isn't answering his phone when Miller appears in the conference room where she's currently working with Blake, looking unsettled.

“Something happened.”

Considering she found out over lunch that her mother may have instigated or at least known about her father's assassination, Clarke doubts that whatever Miller has to tell her will shock her much.

She has no idea how wrong she is.

“Sterling's dead, our third witness. He had a fatal accident last night.”

Clarke's blood freezes. Even with bullet-holes in her conference room, the danger to them has so far seemed abstract and far away. But now someone has actually died, one of their key witnesses nonetheless, and to make matters worse, it happened after they went public, the very thing they thought would keep Blake and the other witnesses safe. Apparently, they were wrong.

She forces herself to push aside the horror of this development, not to process its implications beyond the first practical steps.

“Raven, drive to Harper's house and get her out of there, immediately. Take her somewhere safe.”

Raven leaves, and before Clarke can say anything else, Blake has stood up, his expression indicating that he's going to say something she won't like.

“I want you and your team out of this. Publicly distance yourself from me, if necessary. I'll do the rest of it alone.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard Nathan – Sterling was killed over this. We thought going public would keep me and the other witnesses safe, but apparently we were wrong. People are dying, and I don't want anyone else in danger.”

But before Clarke can reply, the rest of the team crowds into her office to get their orders on how to continue, and Clarke doesn't get around to replying.

In fact, by the time she's made it back home and is pouring herself a glass of wine, Clarke has all but forgotten about Blake's brief attempt to kick her off their case.

That is, until her phone beeps and Clarke finds that he wrote her an e-mail – an official termination of their partnership, with the express wish that she and her team not contact him anymore, return or destroy all information they have gathered on him and the case, and publicly distance themselves from his campaign.

Enraged, Clarke slams down her wine glass to call Blake.

“You're firing me? Via e-mail?!”

“I'm trying to keep you _safe_. Somebody died. You said it yourself, you have a responsibility to your team. I want you all far away from me and this whole mess. It's what I should have done the moment that sniper fired at us.”

“I'm not going to stop because of your ridiculous termination.”

“You will, or my next interview will be about your firm embezzling money and blackmailing clients. I mean it, Clarke. Stay away.”

And then he has the nerve to _hang up_ on her.

Her next ten calls are rejected, and when she gets into the office the next morning, a very sheepish-looking Miller is carrying out boxes of material with Monty's help and apologising profusely to everyone.

Clarke grits her teeth, sits down at her desk and calls Harper at the hotel to make sure she's okay. It'll take more than Blake's empty threats to keep her away from this.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you guys know how bad things just keep piling up on top of each other for Clarke on the show? I'm not saying that's happening here, but I'm also not not saying it. BUT it will lead to one of my favourite chapters.  
> Sorry about the bad guy!Abby, but it had to be done. I actually really like her character.


	15. Chapter 15

Two days after Blake has so unceremoniously fired her, Clarke is sitting in her office long after she's sent everyone else home because they don't exactly have a lot to do right now anyway. Of course she hasn't made any kind of official statement about their separation from Blake's campaign and has no intention to do so either, but Maya is instructed to send all press inquiries on to Nathan and Blake apparently takes this as sufficient proof that she has retreated. Clarke keeps following the press on Blake, keeps calling Nathan twice a day to check in and offer her advice, which is always eagerly taken, and keeps trying to find some new way to approach this, some path they haven't tried yet. Mostly, she just doesn't want to go home, sit around and worry. 

Raven was less than happy about Clarke's insistence to stay at the office late, but when her friend offered to blow off her dinner plans with Wick, Clarke noticed the disappointment on the normally so cheery hacker's face and practically ordered Raven to go, which she did, if only reluctantly. Clarke is now under strict instruction to keep the room panic-buttoned up and to call Raven to pick her up when she's done rather than take her own car and brave the empty garage alone. 

Staring blankly at her laptop screen, Clarke marvels at how fast her whole life has gone south in the span of just a few days – she's not speaking to her mother or her best friend, everyone on her team is reeling after Blake's abrupt dismissal, and the nightmares of her father falling to his death have returned.

And that is exactly why she can't just move on to the next client. Blake can rot in prison for all she cares, but if there's even a hint of a chance that she'll finally get some answers about her father's death, there's no way in hell she will back out of this. Once again, she feels helpless anger rising within her at the fact that he simply did not stop to think about any of that before firing her and now she'll have to slay her demons alone.

That, Clarke tells herself, is the only reason she's still mad at him for firing her. It has nothing to do with the fact that, when they weren't fighting, working together with him could actually be quite fun – on good days, they moved seamlessly together, bouncing ideas back and forth as if they were managing to tap into some kind of invisible energy between them. Clarke wouldn't go so far as to say she misses him, but at the very least it is a little difficult to work on a case whose prime witness isn't speaking to her. 

And so Clarke is sitting in the metal coffin her office has turned into, obsessively going over the same few scraps of information they have and trying, rather unsuccessfully, not to think of the man at the center of this whole mess. 

Eventually, Clarke slams her laptop shut in frustration, heads over to the kitchenette and makes herself some strong, black coffee. Yawning broadly, Clarke carries the giant coffee mug back to her office, carefully keeping the steaming liquid from sloshing over the sides. It's a ridiculous old thing; there's a chip in the rim and the logo of her favourite soccer team has almost washed off. But it was a gift from her Dad, and so she takes it out of her desk every once in a while when there's no one around.

Walking past the conference room, Clarke comes to a sudden halt, cursing as a few drops of the hot liquid spill on her hand - there's an inexplicable draft coming from the darkened room. She walks in, not bothering to switch on the light since the street lamps are casting the room in milky light.

It doesn't take her long to figure out the reason for the draft – the middle pane of the recently repaired window is standing wide open, letting in gusts of wind and rain, and Clarke winces at the thought of her hardwood floor getting soaked. She quickly makes her way over there and sets her coffee down on a table beneath the window. Before she can stretch up towards the high window catch, however, there's a noise behind her, and Clarke whirls around.

A man is standing in the doorway, clothed in dark blue pants and a bomber jacket.

“You are hard to get a hold of, Miss Griffin. Especially with that bunker of yours.”

“Who are you? What do you want?” Clarke feels stupid the moment the words leave her mouth. He won't answer her first question, and she already knows the answer to the second.

“I'm here to finish you off before I take care of your friend Blake.”

Fear starts to coil in her stomach, cold and heavy. Clarke pushes it down along with the bile rising in her throat.

“You've tried that before. And failed.”

“And this time, I won't.”

“This time you didn't even bring a gun.” Hearing the mocking tone in her voice, she bites the inside of her cheek. _Stop antagonising the assassin, Clarke_.

“I won't need one.” And now she remembers the open window she's standing in front of. “In fact, it'll be even better if it looks like a suicide, don't you think?”

“Why would anyone believe that I'd want to commit suicide?”

He shrugs. “Oh, I don't know – because you watched your father die horribly? Because your last client committed political suicide and fired you and no one is going to want you near their career anytime soon? Or maybe you've secretly been taking antidepressants, which the police will find in your desk after your body has smashed to pieces on the sidewalk.”

“Antidepressants? No one who knows me is going to believe that.”

“It's enough if the police believe it.”

Clarke was hoping to get him to keep talking until she's had time to figure something out but he lunges for her, grabbing her shoulders and pushing her towards the window. She can already feel the first cold raindrops hitting her head when she manages to hook her foot around the radiator piping. The sudden painful tug feels as if someone is ripping off her foot at the ankle, but at least she's not on her way down yet.

Instead, Clarke is balanced precariously on the windowsill, her torso hanging out at a 45 degree angle, her arms flailing around for balance. She finally manages to catch hold of the window frame with one hand and pull herself inside. Not much, because her attacker is clearly stronger than her, but enough for her other hand to bump against something solid – her coffee mug.

Ignoring the burning sensation on her palm, she closes her hand around the hot mug and throws the scalding liquid in the man's face.

He staggers backwards, letting go of her to bring his hands to his face, and Clarke pulls herself inside and runs, unsteady and too slow on her high heels and her aching foot. She makes it into her office but doesn't have time to press the panic button before he emerges from the conference room, his face a red grimace of rage.

Clarke makes it into the en-suite bathroom and locks the door, but her attacker starts throwing himself at the door and she knows the thin wood and feeble lock won't hold for long.

Looking around, Clarke takes stock of her surroundings. There's not much in here, unless she intends to bludgeon him with a toilet brush. The cabinet reveals a can of spray deodorant, but judging by the fact that hot coffee didn't stop him, she guesses a bit of aerosol spray won't either.

Clarke can feel the panic rising inside her when her eyes fall on her shoes. The black pumps are brand new and she feels a second of remorse as she slips them off. But their stiletto heels are made of hard, gilded steel, and it's better than nothing. Slipping one into the back of her pants for back-up, Clarke firmly grasps the other in her right hand, her left hand on the deodorant's spray button. She tiptoes over to the door and crouches behind it, just far enough away so it won't hit her in the face when it slams open.

The lock gives just as she's made it there and the man storms in. While he scans the room for her, Clarke leaps up, directs a spray of deodorant at his eyes and stabs the heel of her shoe into the side of his neck. Then she runs past him, only throwing a glance back over her shoulder to check if her would-be killer is still down. He is.

Clarke flies down the staircase and outside, flinging herself off the curb to stop a taxi. She barks out an address before she's even closed the door behind her, eyes still anxiously on the entrance to her building. No one comes out as the taxi pulls out into traffic.

Thankfully, Blake's apartment is only a few blocks away. She doesn't even know if he'll be there, but her phone is still sitting on her desk and she has to warn him about the assassin. Maybe someone came for him at the same time? Her attacker sounded like he was working alone, but the thought noneless makes nausea rise within her, and Clarke has to lean back into the seat and take deep breaths to calm herself, purposefully trying not to look down at the blood on her hand.

By the time they've reached the modern apartment building, the taxi driver has noticed that there's something wrong with Clarke and keeps shooting her concerned glances.

“Miss, are you alright? Do you need to go to a hospital, or to the police?”

Clarke shakes her head. “That won't be necessary. If you could just wait while I get some money from my friend's house... I left in a hurry and forgot my purse.”

 _I left in a hurry_ – that has got to be the understatement of the year, Clarke thinks wrily. The driver glances at the taxi meter and back at her.

“That'll be free of charge for you. Just be safe, alright?”

Clarke smiles in relief and clambers out, the driver watching as she climbs the few stairs to the door and rings the bell. Only after a surprised Blake has buzzed her in does he drive off, and Clarke is touched by his concern. Apparently, there is still such a thing as the kindness of strangers.

Blake, on the other hand, looks anything but kind when she emerges from the elevator.

“I thought I told you....” He trails off when he takes in her appearance – barefoot except for thin stockings, with one hand covered in blood and the other clutching a single shoe. “What happened to you?”

“Someone tried to kill me. I only came to warn you. I'll be out of your hair in a minute, just give me your phone so I can call Raven to come pick me up.”

Eyes widening in shock, he quickly takes the few steps down the hall towards her.

“For fuck's sake, come in.” Gently taking her by the elbow, he leads her inside the apartment. “Are you hurt? Whose blood is that?”

“Not mine. I stabbed him. He might still be in my bathroom at the office.”

Seeing as they kept the lights off the first time she was here, it's the first time Clarke has the opportunity to take a look around Blake's place. There's dark furniture, an overstuffed bookcase and a colourful Renaissance painting, but Clarke doesn't really take much in – it's all getting a bit blurry right now.

“You stabbed him?!”

“With my shoe. The other one, I took this one for back-up.”

His eyes fall on the shoe in her hand, which she's still gripping so tightly that her knuckles stand out.

“That was quick thinking.” Gently, he closes his hand around hers and pries her cold fingers off the shoe. “Why don't you sit down?”

She shakes her head. “I need to call Raven.” Fishing his phone out of his pocket, Blake hands it to her. While she dials Raven's number, he uses her distraction to gently push her down into an armchair before walking over to the open kitchen area.

Clarke listens to the phone ring and watches absently as Blake pours a glass of water and returns to set it down in front of her. He must have just got back home, because he's still wearing suit pants, a white shirt and blue tie.

“Shouldn't we call the police?”

Clarke shakes her head. “I don't want any of this to get out before I've figured out how to spin it.”

“Can you for once stop thinking about the media and think about your own safety?” Blake sounds annoyed.

“I am. That's why I'm calling Raven.”

But Raven's not picking up even though Clarke lets it ring for over a minute. Frustrated, she slams the phone down on the coffee table.

“I can't get a hold of her.”

“You can try again later. Stay and rest for now, okay?”

She nods, distractedly staring at her phone and wondering if she should try Wells, but chances are he still won't pick up. Blake was the first person she thought of when that man lunged at her, but now that she's here with him she wishes she were with anyone else. Especially when she looks up and sees the way he's watching her: Worried and gentle, like he's looking at something fragile he wants to protect. Clarke isn't fragile, she refuses to be even if her knees feel weak and her heart is racing and her ankle is throbbing in pain.

Thankfully, she remembers the last time she felt that way and how she made it stop. While Blake is still watching her worriedly, Clarke rises from the armchair and starts fumbling with the buttons on her blouse.

“Take off your clothes.”

He looks confused for a moment, before understanding dawns. Instead of following her order, however, he takes her wrists and holds them still.

“Clarke, stop.”

Clarke shakes off his hands, starting to get irritated. Now he decides to be chivalrous?! “You didn't object the last time.”

“Well, I'm objecting now. You're in shock.”

“That didn't seem to bother you then.”

“Because I was in shock too.”

She opens another button on her indigo blouse, revealing the lace on her matching bra, and watches him swallow hard.

“I mean it, Princess. I'm not taking advantage of you like this.”

“It's a little late for that, don't you think? Besides, I'd say questionable sex is not my biggest problem right now, seeing as someone keeps trying to _kill_ me because of you.” It's a low blow – after all, this is exactly what he was trying to prevent by being an ass and firing her. But Clarke is scared and in pain. And maybe, just maybe, a little part of her is hurt by his rejection, the part that has wondered if he's been thinking of her since he ended their last phone call.

His face hardens for a moment, whether with guilt or anger is hard to tell. Then he exhales slowly, reaches out and pulls her against him by her shoulders, tucking her head under his chin. To her own surprise, Clarke lets him. It's just for a second, she tells herself, just until her legs stop feeling like they're made of jelly and she's no longer risking the humiliation of fainting in front of him. After her father's death, she suffered panic attacks that were much worse than this, for months until Wells dragged her to a therapist, and if he just shuts up and catches her in case she does collapse, she'll be right as rain in a moment.

“I never meant for you to get hurt...” His arms go around her back to hold her closer, warm and solid, and Clarke suddenly notices how much she's shaking. She brings her hands up to his waist and feels him tighten his arms around her. “I'll make it right, I promise.”

He shouldn't make promises he can't keep, Clarke thinks, and anyway she _doesn't need him_ , or the softness in his voice that only throws her off and makes her weak. But even as she clenches her jaw, Clarke curls her hands into his crisp shirt and leans her forehead against his chest, and the soft kiss he presses to the top of her head is her undoing. Before she can stop it, she's sobbing into Bellamy's tie.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of the earliest chapters I wrote and one of my favourites, and I had to wait for soo long until I could post it because the plot before it kept growing (at one point, this was chapter 8). I was wondering if Clarke breaking down at the end was out of character, but I figured even a badass like her is allowed to freak out after fending off an assassin with a shoe.


	16. Chapter 16

Three hours later, Clarke is sitting on the sleek sofa of a hotel suite they rented under a fake name, hoping that means they won't be found for at least a little while. When Clarke had finally reached Raven, her friend had immediately gone to check the office, only to find that the attacker had escaped, before coming by Bellamy's apartment. They waited only for Octavia to return from the movies before leaving the building through the garage and taking an unnecessarily complicated route to the hotel, where Raven immediately got to work transforming the suite into an impenetrable fortress with her usual array of gadgets. 

After informing the rest of the team, telling Octavia what's going on and deciding to figure out their next steps tomorrow, Clarke and Bellamy have fallen mostly silent as they watch Raven's progress across the rooms. But every once in a while, Clarke looks in his direction to find his eyes on her, and when Raven finally declares it safe to go to bed and Clarke gets up to follow her into one of the bedrooms, she glances back to see Bellamy looking after her as if it takes all of his restraint not to follow her and stand guard by her bed.

When Clarke enters the twin bedroom, Raven is still beating herself up for leaving Clarke alone tonight.

“You could have died. Security is my job, and now that you actually needed it, I wasn't there. And for what? A date!”

“Raven, stop. You can't be expected to watch over me twenty-four-seven. I'd have to pay you way too much.”

Clarke flashes her a smile but Raven isn't appeased. Instead, she starts pushing the beds together.

“Seriously?”

“Well, I'm not leaving your side again after tonight. It was too close.”

Clarke rolls her eyes mockingly, but deep down, she's touched by her friend's protectiveness. In fact, by the time she's brushed her teeth and changed into the hotel's complimentary pyjamas, Clarke is glad to slip into bed and feel Raven's wiry body next to her.

“We will need to figure out a way to keep you and Bellamy safe longterm.” Raven switches off the lights. “Clearly, the panic room is useless.”

Not completely useless, Clarke thinks as memories of the first and only time she used it resurface again, to her profound irritation. That was a one-time thing, Bellamy made that clear enough earlier this evening. Although now that she's safe and sane again, Clarke appreciates that he didn't let her make things between them even more awkward. How did that saying go – once is an accident, twice a habit? Maybe it's for the best this way.

It occurs to her then how long she's been thinking about him while resolving not to do just that anymore. At least it helped dim the memories of dangling out a fifth-floor window and jamming a stiletto heel into a man's neck.

“Can we not think about that until tomorrow? Talk about something simple and fun like we did in college?”

“And what, pray tell, passes for simple and fun for you?”

“I don't know – movies? Boys?”

“You want to talk about _boys_ ?” Raven sounds incredulous. “For one thing, we're grown-ass women, we talk about _men_. And if I recall correctly, our boy-talks back then weren't exactly fun either.”

That's true, Clarke has to admit. After all, the only reason she and Raven met in college was because they found out they'd been unknowingly sharing a boyfriend. They had somehow both seen more potential in each other than in their respective relationships with Finn Collins and kicked him to the curb, but any mention of matters of the heart led to uncomfortable silence for a long time during those first months.

Despite her observation, Raven has apparently decided to indulge her. “Turns out Wick actually counted tonight as a date.”

“And you didn't?”

Clarke feels Raven shrug beside her.

“I don't know. I mean, we've had this casual on-and-off thing going for a few years, so I figured he wanted to continue that, but he actually took me out. Dinner and everything.”

“Just dinner?” 

Raven laughs. “Well, we also made out. A _lot_. It was very...” Raven pauses, then adds in a voice that makes it sound almost like a dirty word, “romantic.”

“Look at you, being taken on romantic dates.”

There's silence for a moment before Raven says, almost bashful: “I liked it, a little bit.”

“Good for you! Wick seems like a nice guy, and you deserve to be wooed a little. You're awesome and you work too hard.” Clarke actually finds the energy to feel genuinely happy for her friend. Raven and her are both similarly prone to getting so absorbed in their work that they neglect their private lives, and while it doesn't bother her for her own sake, Clarke is nonetheless happy to hear that someone has managed to distract Raven for once. 

Raven laughs. “ _I_ work too hard? You're one to talk. You do nothing _but_ work.”

Clarke tries to hold on to the fleeting lightness of their conversation but doesn't quite manage to. Next to her, Raven sighs before finding her hand over the blanket and squeezing it. Because the fact is, as much as she loves her work, it should not have to come at the expense of other things. It's simply that, for a long time after her father's death, her work was all she had to keep her anchored, and at some point over the years, she forgot that things could be different. 

“But maybe it won't be like this forever.”

Clarke wants to believe that, but she isn't sure she can. Faking optimism she's not quite feeling, Clarke squeezes Raven's hand in return.

“Maybe.”

Their conversation peters out after that, and to her own astonishment, Clarke manages to fall asleep, still clutching her friend's hand.

***

 

When Clarke wakes up a few hours later in the early morning light and blearily stumbles out of the bedroom to follow the faint aroma of coffee, it is to find a tall, bald and rather intimidating looking stranger standing in the middle of the suite.

Clarke screams and grabs the nearest solid object, a heavy lamp which she brandishes like a club. But before she can attack the astonished-looking man, Octavia rushes over from the kitchenette and jumps in front of him.

“Clarke, stop! He's police!”

Bellamy and Raven are both storming out of the bedrooms now too, no doubt alarmed by Clarke's scream.

“So I hear someone tried to kill you again,” the man deadpans, and Clarke lifts the lamp again, Raven moving to stand next to her with her gun trained on the intruder.

“How do you know about that?”

“Because Octavia told me.”

That gets Bellamy's attention, who is looking from the stranger to Octavia to Clarke and seems unsure whom to launch himself at.

“I told you to tell me before you went to the police again, O!”

“Again?!” This is the first Clarke is hearing of this, and she doesn't like it at all. Unfortunately, the Blakes are too busy angrily facing off to react to her question.

“And I told you I would do it if I thought you were in danger. And you obviously are! Goddammit Bellamy, Clarke almost gets killed and it doesn't occur to either of you to call the police? You are both too stubborn for your own good, and I won't let you get killed because of it. So now you're going to talk to the nice Detective and see if he can help you.”

Bellamy looks ready to protest, but Clarke is wondering if maybe it won't be worth a shot – the man's already here and, apparently, in the know. And really, even though they were too tired to make the decision last night, they really do have to involve the police at some point. Might as well do it now. “Alright. But I want to see your badge first.”

The man nods and moves to put his hand inside his jacket.

“Stop! Not like that. Take off the jacket and slide it over to Octavia, slowly. Octavia, stay back.”

Raven cocks her gun and the supposed policeman obeys her order without protest, Octavia hovering just out of his reach. He takes the jacket off with slow movements and slides it across the floor to Octavia, who pulls out a small leather wallet containing the metal badge and a driver's licence.

Bellamy moves to stand beside his sister and study the badge before he nods and shows it to Raven and Clarke.

“Looks real.”

Octavia huffs and rolls her eyes exaggeratedly. “Of course it's real. He's a _real_ Detective , working at a _real_ police station. Now will you put away the gun and talk to him?”

That's a good question, Clarke thinks, and when she looks at Blake, he's apparently wondering the same thing. For a moment they look at each other wordlessly, trying to decide if they can trust the Detective. Then Bellamy gives a tiny nod and Clarke sets down the lamp again.

“Alright. We'll talk. But I'm going to need some coffee.”

***

 

Five minutes later, Clarke has changed back into yesterday's clothes, making a mental note to ask Raven to drive her to her place later to get some fresh clothes, and they're sitting in the living-room sipping their coffees while the Detective introduces himself as Lincoln and asks them to tell him everything they haven't made public yet. Clarke and Bellamy take turns recounting the shooting and their investigation and Sterling's suspiciously-timed accident. When Clarke has to recount the events of the evening before, she hesitates for a moment, shivering at the memory of hanging out a fifth-floor window. But Bellamy, who is sitting next to her on the couch, gently presses his leg against hers and somehow the solidity of the contact reassures her enough to continue.

Monty and Miller, who have been told to come via text, arrive shortly after, followed by Jasper who is carrying two giant bags full of greasy breakfast food. At Bellamy's surprised look, Clarke explains:

“Greasy food calms the nerves.”

Lincoln raises an eyebrow but waits patiently until they've set out the food on the table and everyone around him is tucking in.

“Well, Detective, where do we go from here?”

Clarke shoots Bellamy a surprised look at his challenging tone, but if the Detective noticed, he doesn't comment. Octavia, on the other hand, is glaring daggers at her obstinate brother.

“We should try and see if the attacker left any blood behind at your office. If we're lucky we can get a DNA sample from it. You said you did not take the shoe with you after stabbing him with it, right?”

Clarke shakes her head. “No. I just ran.”

“It wasn't at the office either,” Raven chimes in. “I'm guessing he kept it in to prevent blood loss.”

The Detective nods. “Maybe the shoe is something to go by then. We can call up hospitals and ask if anyone came in with a shoe buried in their neck, or at least an injury consistent with such a weapon. It might also be helpful if you still had the bullets – maybe we can trace them back to the gun.”

“We have the bullets.”

Clarke shoots Raven a surprised look. “We do?”

“I kept them, just in case. But I doubt someone planning an assassination would register a gun first.”

The Detective shrugs. “Probably not, but it's worth checking anyway.”

They are interrupted at this point in the conversation by a knock on the door. Raven, gun in hand, opens it to reveal Wells, looking sheepish and worried at the same time.

“Raven told me what happened.”

Instinctively, Clarke gets a up and walks a few steps towards him, relieved to have him here, but then stops. For the first time in her life, Clarke feels a hint of mistrust against her best friend. Wells notices her reticence and swallows nervously.

“I talked to my Dad, about your father's death. He got really angry.”

That, they both know, is a sign that something's up. Thelonious Jaha is not normally a choleric person, so Wells must have hit a nerve.

“I mean, I still don't want to believe it until I've got proof but... He said it sounded like you'd gone insane and that no one in their right mind would believe you and... I want to believe you, Clarke. I'm sorry.”

And now Clarke moves again, quickly crossing the few steps to the door to hug her best friend, screwing her eyes shut against the tears when he hugs her back.

“I'm glad you're back.”

When they sit back down, Clarke catches Bellamy mouthing 'Told you so'. She just rolls her eyes, but she can't suppress a small smile as she looks around the ragtag group assembled in the room, now minus Raven who left to pick up Wick at his apartment. Wells is back, Bellamy got over himself, her team are undeterred as ever, and with Lincoln willing to investigate quietly, they have an ally. Apparently, as terrifying as last night's attack was, something good came out of it: her team is reunited as it should be, and that makes them stronger than ever.

They _will_ get through this. She'll make sure of it.

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, Clarke has finally gone from 'Blake' to 'Bellamy'. Progress!  
> Sadly, I won't have time to update as often as I used to over the coming weeks, because that deadline I've been mentioning is coming up fast and I need to devote more time to being a responsible adult. But I'll still try to get a new chapter out about once a week.  
> Also: You guys, could your comments BE any sweeter? (Bonus points for everyone who read this in Chandler Bing's voice.)


	17. Chapter 17

If anyone asked, Kyle Wick would describe himself as a simple man who does sophisticated things with code. He can hack into anything and the programs he writes are nothing short of elegant, but other than that, he likes to keep his life simple. He doesn't do elaborate heists or high-profile hacks, most of his financial revenue streams are legal, and he works just enough to be able to afford a nice place and travel the world as he pleases. In general, his life is un-glamorous and, most importantly, quiet. There is just one exception to that rule, one brilliant, complicated brunette exception, and no matter how hard he tries he, can never quit her for good.

Now, for example, he has just found out that the military cover-up he has been hired to help uncover is apparently so explosive that someone has tried to kill his employer for the second time in less than a month, and he's starting to think that it's time to get out – Wick doesn't normally do violence. He's the man in the background; he does not get into the thick of it.

But here she is, his complication, standing before his door with her usual challenging expression and ordering him to accompany her to their new, secret base because apparently, the office is getting too dangerous. And he doesn't even try to argue, just grabs his laptop and follows her to the car. Raven quickly fills him in on the whole situation, which is very necessary because her text last night was as cryptic as it was alarming: _some1 tried 2 kill clarke. stay inside + safe. pick-up 2morro @10_

Before he can even say anything along the lines of maybe not wanting to get killed himself, Raven has ushered him into the car and driven off, making a few sharp and unneccessary turns to make sure, as she explains, that no one is following them to the hotel where the others are waiting.

When they finally pull into the hotel parking lot, Wick has another fleeting moment of 'now or never'. He's about to say that he wants out, but then Raven makes some joke he doesn't catch and looks at him, smiling expectantly, and he realises: He won't get out. Because judging by what Raven told him so far, he might die or go to prison. But from the way their date the night before went, he might also walk away from this job with something he's wanted for a long, long time – assuming they're on the same page of course. And what better moment to find out than now, Wick encourages himself as they get out of the car and walk into the lobby.

“So, last night was nice...”

Raven looks at him as if he'd gone crazy, and he quickly elaborates.

“I don't mean the part where someone tried to kill your best friend, just... before that? Our date?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.”

They've reached the elevator and Raven concentrates awfully hard on pressing the button for their floor. Her casual disinterest is something he has gotten used to over the years, and normally, it leads to him leaving and her texting him six months later for a booty call. But this time, the thought is unbearable. Because he knows last night was different, that they could be different.

“Don't tell me last night didn't mean anything more to you than the other times.”

Raven looks at him sharply, but he doesn't let her speak.

“I mean, come on – we've been doing this for years now. At some point, it's just not a casual thing anymore, and if it is to you, then I don't want to keep doing it.”

“Wick...” Her voice softens and he hates it. He doesn't want her pity, he wants her love or nothing at all.

“I'm not asking you to marry me, you know. I'm just asking that you give us a chance. Because I'm in love with you, and if you push me away now, I'll be gone for good.”

Knowing what she's like, he's always avoided saying those words, afraid that they'll scare her even more. But it's not like he has much to lose right now, and surprisingly, getting this off his chest feels good, even though he fully expects this to be the last private conversation they'll ever have. He's already steeling himself for the moment when she inevitably breaks his heart.

But for a long moment, she does and says abolutely nothing. That's not helpful at all, but at least her expression hasn't closed off like it usually does when they discuss anything remotely connected to what exactly they are to each other.

He's about to beg her to please say something when Raven, apparently, decides to take a different route: She kisses him. And as bad as they are at talking, this is one thing they're great at. It doesn't take long for him to push her against the back of the elevator and her to wrap her legs around his hips, and only the ping of the elevator reaching their intended floor makes them break apart, breathing heavily.

“I liked last night. I would have told you if you'd let me get a word in.”

She takes his hand and pulls him out of the elevator and down a long corridor. The thought of sitting in a room with a bunch of people acting like nothing momentous happened between them is less than appealing as he looks at her – cheeks flushed, hair tousled, chest still rapidly rising and falling. She's always stunning, but there's something about the way she looks when he kisses her that makes his heart swell with happiness. The thought of getting to do that more often from now on is hard to wrap his head around. So, just to be sure, he tugs at her hand until she veers back into him and kisses her again, and she melts against him. She's still smiling when she pulls away.

“They're waiting for us.”

Raven apparently notices that he's less than enthusiastic as she knocks on the door of one of the suites, because she leans in for one more quick kiss.

“I promise, as soon as this is over, I'm whisking you off to a secret location for a well-deserved holiday.”

“Secret location, hm? Tell me more about that.”

“Well, it is secret... But I can tell you there will be palm trees and cocktails and the two of us in a cabin right by the beach...” To be honest, she could be promising him a decrepit hut in the Siberian tundra and he'd still go as long as she's there.

He's very much tempted to kiss her again, but the door opens to reveal Jasper with a giant coffee mug in one hand and a pancake in the other that is dripping syrup on the floor. At least there's food, Wick thinks, but he can't help but look at Raven and think of the thousand things he'd rather be doing now than working.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a break from the plot for some very important Raven/Wick fluff (Ravick? Wicken? Someone tell me the damn ship name). I realise this might be a little out of nowhere, (okay it's completely out of nowhere and the filleriest of filler chapters), but I needed those two being fluffy and I don't have the time or energy to focus on the more plot-heavy stuff right now. I also apologize for the long break – updating once a week didn't quite work out. And since my deadline is in two weeks, there won't be anything new until then. But after that, I'll have all the time in the world and it'll be Bellarke full steam ahead.


	18. Chapter 18

Clarke is slowly starting to hate the colour purple that dominates the entire suite of the sleek modern design hotel. Lincoln, the police detective who scared Clarke half to death this morning, has left hours ago to report back to his supervisor, get the ball rolling on the investigation and see what can be done to protect them. They are under strict instructions not to leave, let anyone in, or make any phone calls, and Clarke is starting to feel like a trapped animal in this purple hell. It doesn't exactly help that Bellamy has fallen mostly silent and is now alternating between glowering at everyone and pacing back and forth on the (purple!) carpet, or that Clarke is tired and jumpy and her ankle hurts if she tries standing on it for more than a few seconds.

Miller has cancelled Bellamy's appointments for the day before coming here, so at least she doesn't have to worry about offending potential donors. After calling the others from Bellamy's landline last night and telling them where to meet (in code just in case), Raven confiscated and dismantled all their electronic devices to make sure no one can trace their GPS. And while Clarke agrees that a gaggle of reporters camping out in the lobby would be less than inconspicuous, she knows they can't go on like this much longer. Someone with Bellamy's current media presence can't just drop off the face of the earth, especially since his recent reveal already has people questioning his credibility. Not to mention, the attack on Clarke is something they can spin to their advantage, to show the world just how eager someone is to keep them quiet, and Clarke wants to start on that sooner rather than later.

All in all, Clarke is a tense, moody, worried mess, and she has to really force herself to listen when Lincoln goes into a lengthy recap of his conversation with his superior and their various options of being kept safe, all of which sound thoroughly unappealing.

“Obviously, I can't tell you what to do.” Lincoln shoots a quick glance at Clarke and then Bellamy, only to be met with even more intense glowering. “But I strongly recommend you all take the offer of moving to one of our safe houses, go off the grid for a while.”

Those are the exact words Clarke did not want to hear. “Off the grid? In case you hadn't noticed, we're running a senatorial campaign and trying to blow the whistle on a war crime here. We can't just drop everything and disappear for God knows how long.”

Sensing her impatience, Lincoln lifts his hands in an appeasing gesture. “I understand that. As I said, there are alternatives, but they are much less secure. We can of course get you a police escort for attending events and station a patrol car outside of your apartments, but there is only so much we can do with the resources we have. And since only Clarke and Bellamy have been victims of direct attacks so far, we can't extend the same protection to all members of your teams. Meaning you would be safest if you all stayed together in a location that is easy to secure.”

“But the safe house is something you can offer all of us?” This is the first thing Bellamy has said since Lincoln started laying out their options.

“It is, yes. And since our safe houses are all remote and equipped with security systems, you'll be well-protected even without twenty-four-hour police surveillance.”

Bellamy nods, apparently satisfied. “That settles it them – you're all going to one of the safe houses. Monty can probably whip up a safe internet connection so we can stay in contact, right?”

“ _We_ are going to the safe house?” Is he suggesting what Clarke thinks he's suggesting? “So what are you doing?”

“I'm staying in town of course, to assist with the investigation, do interviews, inform the public about what's happening. That's the strategy, right?”

“Well, yes, but...”

He cuts her off. “Then that's what I'll do, alone. There's no point putting anyone else in danger. I'm sure there are some things Nathan can help me with that don't require him to stay here, and as for you and your team...”

“I swear to God, Bellamy, if you try to fire me again...”

“Well, it's hardly fair to expect you to stay attached to my campaign when it's clearly dangerous to be associated with me.”

“And firing us will keep us safe? It didn't work for me last night, did it?”

Bellamy looks stricken for a moment but pushes on. “That's why this time, I'll make sure you're far, far away from me. You and your team are going to the safe house, as are Octavia and Nate. End of discussion.”

“End of discussion?! I was not aware that I was taking orders from you now.”

“You are if you're serious about continuing to work on my campaign.”

And just like that, the tension building up over the course of the day explodes into yet another screaming match. Clarke can't believe this is still happening, that he's still not trusting her to be able to handle whatever else his enemies throw at them, and she's getting sick of it. It's especially galling after the way she exposed herself last night – breaking down in tears in someone's arms is not something she'd do lightly, and she had hoped he'd understand it as the sign of trust it is. Apparently, she was wrong.

Clarke takes a deep breath and forces herself to calm down. Looking around, she notes the team watching with exasperated expressions, no one but Lincoln looking particularly surprised by their sudden outbreak. As embarrassing as it may be, Clarke just can't help it: No one pushes her buttons like Bellamy Blake. It's time to put an end to this undignified display.

“Lincoln, can we get a moment before we decide what to do?”

The Detective looks a little startled but nods in agreement, and before Bellamy can protest, Clarke takes his arm and guides him over to her room. Closing the door behind them, she turns towards him.

“Why are you patronizing me in front of my team? I'm a responsible adult. If I decide that helping you is worth putting myself in danger, that's my choice and no one else's.”

“Oh really? And does your team get the same choice?”

“Of course they will. If you hadn't decided our course of action for all of us, I would have told them that they're free to go to the safe house.”

“And how many of them would have dared to make that choice once it's clear their boss makes it a priority to stay here and keep working?”

“Are you saying I'd put my team in danger? That I'd pressure them to stay and work? Those people aren't just my employees, they're my family.”

“Exactly, and they would go to hell and back for you if you let them.”

“I won't let anything happen to them!”

Bellamy looks as if she'd slapped him. “Unlike me, you mean? I let the people who wanted to help me get killed and shot at and attacked.”

“No! That's not what I meant at all.” And suddenly Clarke feels dead tired. They're in this together, so why do they act like they're on opposite sides here? Why are they still fighting when they want the exact same thing – to get justice while making sure their friends are safe? And where, under all that snarling and shouting, is the man who gave her a gentle hug when she offered him mindless sex? “We need to stop fighting and learn to work together on this.”

But Bellamy's resistance isn't broken so easily. Even as Clarke sits down on the bed because her ankle is hurting again, he paces up and down agitatedly, face furrowed deeply.

“I don't want to put anyone else in danger! Dammit Clarke, people have already been killed because of this, I'll be damned if I let that happen to you and your team.”

“They weren't killed because of _you_.”

“Really? Tell that to Sterling. If I hadn't started digging so carelessly, if I hadn't underestimated the danger, if I had got him to safety the moment he agreed to testify... he'd still be alive.”

And now, as her anger subsides, Clarke finally sees what she should have understood a long time ago: Bellamy isn't trying to patronize her, he genuinely blames himself for everything that's happened – Sterling's death, the attack on her, and who knows what else.

“You couldn't have known! Bellamy, none of this is is your fault! Just because you decided to speak out about a crime doesn't mean you're responsible that someone is trying to silence you and your allies. You're not the one who caused Sterling's accident. You're not the man who tried to push me out the window last night. You need to stop blaming yourself!”

“How can you say that after you almost got killed? I've watched you today – you're in pain, you're traumatized, and it's all my fault. I'm the one who brought this into your life. I put you and your team in danger.”

“And I decided it was worth the risk. Because you also offered me a chance to finally find out what happened to my Dad. But even without that, I would have taken the risk and stood by you, because I believe in you. I believe you're right, and that you can go on to do great things. You need to forgive yourself for whatever mistakes you think you've made.”

That finally gets him to stop pacing, and as he stands facing her, the last bit of anger drains from his face and leaves behind only the deep guilt and insecurity she saw the night he first revealed his demons to her.

“What if I can't?”

The shaking in his voice propels her to her feet and Clarke steps toward him, wincing as pain shoots through her ankle. Steadying herself by holding onto his forearm with her left hand, she ignores the pain and leans up to cup his face in her right.

“Then I'll do it for you, alright? You're forgiven.”

He swallows hard, and for a split second before he closes his eyes, she sees them tear up. They stand in silence for a long moment while he takes a few shaky breaths, and she wonders if he's ever really talked to anyone about what happened all those years ago or if he bore it alone all this time. From the way he leans into her hand, as if he's trying to soak up every bit of human comfort before she can pull away again, she guesses it's the latter. Her heart breaks a little at the thought.

Then he opens his eyes again, deep brown locking onto her blue, and Clarke freezes in place, trapped even though she knows she should take her hand off and take a step back because this is too much, too close, too fast. She can feel his jaw twitch under her palm, and without any conscious effort, her thumb is softly, comfortingly tracing his cheekbone. They were perfect strangers not long ago and now they're sharing these glimpses of their most vulnerable selves, and a part of her wants nothing more than to run away as far and fast as she can.

“Guys, are you okay?” Wells' voice and a harsh knock on the door break the spell, causing Clarke to jump backwards, heart racing. “It's just that, when the yelling suddenly stopped we were scared you'd killed each other.”

“We're good, Wells. Just working out some details.”

Clarke opens the door, realizing a second too late that they haven't actually made a decision, but she can't seem to form a single straight thought, not with the memory of Bellamy's pained eyes on her mind and the warmth of his body on her back as he steps up behind her. But while she's still struggling to come up with something to say, her friend takes it off her shoulders.

“So are we. We know where we can all be safe and still continue with the campaign.”

Clarke raises an eyebrow questioningly and Wells expands: “Kane.”

“Marcus?” Clarke retorts at the same time as Bellamy asks: “Governor Kane?”

Wells nods. “Yes. It seems you two have a friend in common, and he just so happens to own a bunch of real estate in the city. I'm sure he can discretly settle us somewhere safe until the two of you are no longer in danger.”

It's a good idea, and from the unusual lack of protests behind her, Clarke guesses Bellamy agrees for once. Before she can ask how she's to contact their potential ally, Wells holds out a small cellphone.

“Burner phone. Lincoln brought us a few so we can make some calls.”

Grinning broadly, Clarke takes the phone from her friend's hand. Ten minutes later, they have an address to an apartment building downtown and a promise that her father's best friend will meet them there that same evening with the keys to a penthouse apartment – spacious, fully-furnished, with a view over Capitol Hill and, most importantly, in a building guarded around the clock by private security.

Clarke won't relax until they're all safely there, and probably not even then. But for now at least they have a plan.

***

 

While Clarke is obviously happy about the plan for everyone to move into a better-secured place together, Bellamy is far from at ease. For one thing, Harper has decided not to accompany them, choosing instead to take the next flight to LA to stay with her long-distance boyfriend. Lincoln promises to contact the LAPD about protecting her, but if they're not going to stay away from him, Bellamy would rather have everyone gathered in one easy to protect spot.

And so, as he follows Clarke into the marble lined lobby of an elegant apartment block downton, Bellamy feels distinctly uneasy. Sure, Marcus Kane greets them with the news that he's already hired additional security personnel to guard the top floor where they'll be staying, and several cops have just finished scoping out the apartment for potential entrypoints for intruders and are reassuring Lincoln that they're as safe as can be. But even that doesn't help to erase Bellamy's lingering worry, not after seeing Clarke last night, bloodied and shell-shocked and breaking down in tears. What they're doing is dangerous, and if the shooting or the potential attack on Sterling weren't enough to drive that point home, the idea of Clarke in danger is, not to mention the possibility that his sister or Miller or anyone on Clarke's team could be next.

But, like before, Clarke got through to him and broke down his resolve to isolate himself from everyone to keep them safe. And like before, he is utterly powerless in the face of her determination to help him, to _redeem_ him. She's promised him forgiveness and it's the most wonderful thing he's ever been promised. He has lived for seventeen years under the weight of a hundred deaths, he has already added Sterling to the list, and every time Clarke winces as she takes an unsteady step on her injured foot, he adds her pain to his tally too. But Clarke, with all her intellect and integrity and heart, told him that he's innocent without a clue of the power she held in that moment.

Now he watches as she greets Governor Kane with a quick, tight hug. It is only when they're all upstairs in the two top-floor apartments Kane has set aside for them that Clarke takes the time to introduce the Governor to everyone on their teams. Bellamy and Miller have met him before, since Kane was one of the earliest party members to endorse his campaign and the one who recommended Griffin and Associates, but they haven't met more than a handful of times. Clarke, on the other hand, shows an easy familiarity with the older man that speaks of a longstanding connection, and it doesn't take long for him to find out what that connection it.

While Octavia, Raven and Wells explore their new living quarters and the others are shown to their apartment by the concierge, Bellamy lingers by Governor Kane's side to address him.

“I can't begin to tell you how thankful we are for this....” he starts but is promptly cut off when the older man levels him with a cold glare.

“Clarke is my oldest friend's only daughter. She's like a daughter to me. And since she started working with you, someone has tried to kill her twice. Am I going to regret recommending Griffin and Associates to you?”

Kane's stern expression triggers a strong and sudden urge to swear up and down that he won't let anything happen to Clarke and her team, that he'll protect her with his life if necessary. But while he has no doubt by now that he would, he knows he can't promise Kane the one thing he wants to hear: that Clarke will be safe.

“I tried to fire her.” It's s feeble defense, and Bellamy feels even more like an idiot. Kane looks anything but convinced, but before he can say anything, Clarke joins them, having apparentlyoverheard their conversation.

“And I wouldn't let him. You don't know the whole story, Marcus. This is all connected to Dad's death. He requested to see some files about it just before the accident.”

She says it quickly and bluntly, obviously determined not to let the mention of her father get to her, and Bellamy is once again struck with awe at her strength. Kane's expression freezes in shock for a moment, then softens the tiniest bit. He nods his head in the direction of the dining table.

“Sit. Explain.”

So they explain, again, giving a little more detail than on the phone before. Clarke gives him a rather routine rundown of the accumulated violence of the last weeks, and Kane listens attentively, only occasionally shooting angry glares at Bellamy. By the time she finishes up her report, Clarke is leaning across the table excitedly.

“Don't you see, Marcus? We can finally catch the people who killed my Dad.”

Seeing and hearing her excitement, Bellamy makes a mental note to apologize for ever trying to get her off the case – this is about her as much as it is about him, and it was selfish of him to try and keep her from solving her father's murder just for his own peace of mind. But now is not the time. Kane leans forward too, and for a moment, the look on his face reminds Bellamy of his mother, of that peculiar mix of love and worry that seems to grip parents when they see their children growing up and taking flight, knowing there's a risk they will fall and hurt their knees. Then the older man nods decisively.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Right now, we've got next to no evidence. All we've got is a falsified mission statement for the night of the massacre, but the only proof we have that it was tampered with is the testimony provided by Bellamy and Harper, so until we've found anything else, we need to create public pressure for an investigation. And we need to position Bellamy as trustworthy and believable. We're riding on his credibility, and we could use a few people who'd vouch for him.”

“Of course I will. But you already knew that.”

Clarke smiles and doesn't deny it. “It might be risky. Conservative pundits are yelling themselves hoarse calling Bellamy a liar and an attention whore and a bad patriot. They're practically calling for a lynch mob.”

Kane shrugs. “They already hate me, and I've still got a 64% approval rating. I'll take my chances.”

“In that case, I think there's a TV panel later this week I can get you on. As soon as we've got a secure internet connection, I'll send the details to your office.”

Judging by the fact that Raven and a police technician are already camped out by the telephone outlet with an array of gadgets and cables, and Monty and Wick are probably doing the same thing next door, Bellamy figures that won't take long.

“Excellent. And maybe before that my office can release an official statement?”

Clarke ponders the idea for a moment. “That might be a good idea, but we need to word it carefully so it doesn't seem like you know anything – the last thing we want is for you to get on the attackers' radar too. But I'd wait with that until we've publicized the attack on me. I'm waiting for the police to give their okay for us to make that information public – right now, Lincoln says his captain wants to release as little about the investigation as possible.”

Bellamy wonders when the hell she managed to find all that out, because they've been shut up in a hotel suite together all day and this is the first he hears about it. But the strain of the last twenty-four hours and the lack of sleep – he spent the few precious hours he got in bed last night tossing and turning and resisting the urge to sneak over into Clarke's room to check on her – are taking their toll, and he finds it increasingly hard to concentrate on the conversation. Thankfully, Clarke chooses that same moment to unsuccessfully stifle a drawn-out yawn, and Kane taps the table with an air of finality.

“I think that's enough planning for today. You've been through a lot, you need to get some sleep.”

Not even Clarke protests. Raven and the technician have finished too by now, leaving a tangle of cables and wires in their wake, and Raven throws them a broad grin.

“We've got a secure phone line.” Then she looks at Clarke, who is swaying on her feet, and adds with a stern expression: “But no internet for you tonight. Checking your e-mails will have to wait.”

Clarke smiles tiredly and nods, but Bellamy has no doubt that she won't sleep until her phone is logged into the secure network. He says a quick goodbye to Kane, who has mostly stopped glaring at him by now, and leaves it to Clarke to escort their new ally to the door so she can have a few words in private with the man who seems to be something of an ersatz father to her.

Silence settles over the apartment. Octavia has retreated to her room after chatting with Lincoln for a while, Wells is outside on the balcony making use of the newly established phone connection, and there's nothing to be heard from the apartment next door. Everyone seems to have settled in nicely, and Bellamy tries to find some sense of peace himself, without any luck. As if sensing his unease, Raven gets up from her place by the telephone outlet and hands him an ipad which he identifies as his own.

“I've logged you into the security camera feeds. There are cameras outside the doors to the apartments, including the balcony door, and down by the building's front- and back entrances. Maybe it helps.”

He can only look at the brilliant technician, stunned. “Thank you. I...”

“You worry, I get it. Honestly, I'd think you were an asshole if you didn't. I've got my own laptop linked into the feed too. And my gun will never be out of Clarke's reach.”

He raises his eyebrows. “She knows how to shoot?”

“A little. I've taught her a while back. You never know, right?”

“Right.” This is a strange conversation, Bellamy thinks, especially since he hadn't expected Clarke's "Girl Friday" to be quite so perceptive.

“And stop beating yourself up over last night. She's not made of glass, you know.”

Clarke returns before he can reply, and her and Raven retreat to the room they're sharing. Before the door closes behind them, however, Clarke looks back at him and smiles softly. And in his sleep-deprived state, Bellamy finds himself marvelling at the fact that, of all the people in the world, fate has decided to throw him together with a workaholic puppetmaster and her team of mad geniuses who may just end up saving him once more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I'm finally writing again! I have no idea what this is or how I feel about it, but at least I'm back in the story again. I am happy that I found a way to incorporate Kane though. Unfortunately, Harper won't really play a big role, because I have far too many characters in this thing already and not enough stuff for them to do. I'm a little worried I made this chapter too much about Bellamy, but I usually focus too much on Clarke, so I figured he had some stuff to work out.  
> This chapter would not have happened for at least another month without the help of damnthesebitemarks, who helped me work through some plot issues and had some excellent ideas. Thank you dear!


	19. Chapter 19

As planned, Bellamy and Marcus Kane embark on a veritable crusade of media appearances, starting with an appearance on a morning show where Bellamy speaks frankly and angrily about the attack on his consultant and the threat against his own life, bringing the already frenzied debate to new heights. Marcus publically declares his support for Bellamy's cause and the two appear on a panel show together. To strengthen their position, Miller has subtly recommended a military expert who is willing to state publicly that Bellamy's version of events is plausible and in line with his own research on foreign military assassinations. The only one on the panel who might cause trouble is a conservative pundit who, while aggressive, has no actual proof Bellamy is lying, and so between Marcus' show of faith and the military historian's input, the panel show goes over smoothly and only serves to strengthen their position.

And maybe Clarke is getting cocky at this point, but she urges Bellamy to accept another invitation to a political talk show right away – a show whose host is famous for his relentless questions and scathing attacks on guests, and who also just so happens to be her ex. Finn Collins is, thankfully, not in the camp of right-wing populists who are calling for Bellamy's blood, but he is always highly skeptical of anything that smacks of a conspiracy theory. He does not pull his punches, especially when he thinks someone is only trying to get attention, and Finn has made it clear since they went public that he thinks that that's exactly what Bellamy is doing. Convincing Finn Collins that they're telling the truth will be difficult, but if they pull it off, it would be a huge boost for their credibility. And with all she's seen of Bellamy's talent for getting people on his side, Clarke thinks that it's worth the risk.

Not everyone on the team agrees: When Wells announces the planned interview during their daily team meeting in the morning before the show, Raven immediately turns her head to look at Clarke with a skeptically raised eyebrow, and as soon as everyone has dispersed, her friend pulls her aside.

“I know the media stuff does not normally fall into my area of expertise, but... you want to send him on Finn's show? Are you sure?”

“It won't be easy, I know that...”

“Hell no, it won't. Finn will tear into him. He's been blasting him on-air nonstop since Bellamy went public with the story, he will try to crush him.”

“Bellamy can handle it. He's seen the show before, he knows what he's getting into.”

“Does he also know about you and Finn?”

“He doesn't need to.”

That makes Raven's eyebrow shoot up again. “Are you sure? If Finn saw the rumours about the two of you dating...”

“So what if he did? We were over a long time ago. Finn can't possibly still be hung up on me.”

“He tried to get you back for years.”

Clarke is slowly starting to get irritated. “Finn will hardly be unprofessional enough to attack one of his guests just because they may or may not be dating me.”

“I still think you should tell Bellamy, just so he's prepared.”

But just the thought of telling Bellamy all about that debacle is too mortifying to entertain. “He will be prepared. I'll prep him for the interview, as I always do. But I'm not bringing up my love life. He'll think I'm a crazy narcissist.”

Raven's expression is still skeptical, but the finality in Clarke's voice has apparently done the job of signalling that the conversation is over.

***

 

Several hours later, sitting in a control room and watching the most brutal interview any of her clients has ever gone through, Clarke thinks she really should have listened to Raven. Finn is even more aggressive than usual, and although Bellamy is standing his ground so far, she can tell that he's a little overwhelmed by his host's animosity. Hell, even Finn's own team seem surprised by the vicious attacks, the relentless questions their boss unleashes on his guest. And with only a few minutes of air time left, when Clarke is starting to think they've made it, it turns out Finn has another ace up his sleeve, and he's waited until his opponent – guest is hardly the applicable word here anymore – is tired out before he plays it.

“ _Now, I have a message here from someone else who wants to weigh in on your story....”_

That makes Clarke perk up – she has the entire outline of today's show in front of her, and all guest experts listed have already been patched in, all video inserts played. Of course Finn didn't disclose his strategy or his questions, but she has a rough outline of talking points that will be covered, and so far, they have ticked off all of them. Clarke leans forward and taps the producer sitting in front of her on the shoulder to get her attention.

“What's he talking about? There were no other guests scheduled. Did he get someone last minute?”

But before she can get a reply, a flick of a button rolls a video – pre-taped, not live – and Clarke watches with rising dread as a crawl on the bottom of the screen reveals the name of the man speaking into the camera. It's a name she has heard often these past weeks, and it is one she knows will hit Bellamy like a punch in the gut.

The message is short, but to Clarke, it seems like eons pass as the man speaks in accented English of the day he heard that his entire family had been killed – wiped out by people who had claimed to be allies, liberators, protectors of his people.

By the time the man whose father was killed by Bellamy's team all those years ago finishes by accusing everyone involved of heinous murder, Clarke can tell the message has the desired effect: Finn barely manages to disguise his smirk, and Bellamy has gone pale and tense, a muscle in his jaw twitching, staring stiffly at the screen where the video is displayed for the host and his guests on the studio stage. As soon as the message ends, the producer flips a switch and the screen showing the final broadcast changes to the camera that is set to zoom in on Bellamy's face, to get every minute detail of his reaction – a reaction that might well be utter devastation, and Clarke is absolutely powerless to do anything. Which, obviously, Finn was betting on when he omitted the video message from the show outline he gave her.

She leans forward to the producer. “I know exactly what he's doing, and he won't get away with it. If this goes South, you're going to commercial early.”

The producer ignores her, and Clarke puts a hand on her shoulder, gentle pressure swiftly growing into an unpleasant pinch.

“I'm not joking around. If your esteemed star makes my client look bad, this is done. You will cut to commercial early or I'll march in there myself and pull him out of the studio.”

When the producer takes her eyes off the screen to look at her, Clarke knows she has won. The woman won't risk her making good on her threats – and Clarke's threats never sound like she won't make good on them.

Eyes glued to Bellamy's stormy face on the screen before her, Clarke waits for the slightest sign that she'll have to step in and signal to the producer to cut the feed. They've prepared for this, she tells herself in order to stay calm. She told him what to expect, that Finn would try to get a rise out of him. She drilled into him that if provoked, he should count to five in his head before answering, that it's better to make people wait for a few seconds than to blow up after one and end up as a viral video. And to her great relief, Bellamy seems to remember her lesson. He stays silent for a long time, but instead of cutting to Finn's probing look, the camera stays on Finn's guest, taking in every emotion playing across his face. And then Clarke almost laughs out loud, because she realizes that, as luck would have it, the producer she threatened a second ago is actually on her side. Contrary to what Finn expected, confronting Bellamy with the son of the man he helped to kill may just turn out in Bellamy's favour.

The producer allows the camera to linger for a little longer and only switches to a bigger perspective after Finn has already started talking, putting him back in the frame almost as an afterthought. Clarke grins – the network's big star host is not going to be happy when he sees the show and finds out he has been upstaged by the guest he intended to humiliate.

She squeezes the producer's shoulder once more, gentle and friendly this time, and watches as Finn does his best to propel Bellamy into action.

“ _Now, Mister Blake, you've repeatedly talked about feeling guilty, about wishing you could somehow atone for this crime. This is your chance to make it up to the last surviving member of the family in whose death you were at the very least implicated. What do you reply?”_

This too is a tricky moment, because Clarke knows well enough that Bellamy has a temper and that there's still a chance that he'll go off, especially since Finn's manipulation is anything but subtle. There is indeed anger showing on his face when he replies, but his voice is calm, if a little choked. Clarke wills him to find the right words with all her might, as if he could somehow feel her support if she just focused on it hard enough.

“ _That is an idiotic and disrespectful suggestion. I do feel guilty, I do acknowledge that by not stopping those of my team members who followed the order to shoot, I have contributed to the deaths of this man's family. There is nothing I can do or say to make up for that, and for you to suggest so, to ask me to barter for absolution live on air is downright morbid. This man does not owe me anything, least of all to listen to my excuses. I am doing all I can to make sure the truth about his family's death is brought to light and those responsible are punished. But that won't bring back his family. I can never “make up” for the lives I failed to protect that night.”_

There is complete silence in the usually so hectic control room, everyone staring with bated breath at the screen that shows the semi-close-up of the host and his guest on the screen. Bellamy is visibly breathing hard, his cheeks slightly flushed, while his host has gone completely still. It takes Finn only a few seconds to recover, but Clarke knows it's still more than the suave host would normally need, and she feels smugly proud of her client.

After that, Finn wraps the show up quickly with a few inane phrases that Clarke only listens to with half an ear because the producer has turned around to speak to her.

“Just so you know, I told him not to do it. It was a cheap shot. But for what it's worth, your guy came out of this looking much better than Finn.”

Clarke nods and smiles tersely, thankful for the woman's help but eager to get to Bellamy. She's halfway to the studio door when he bursts out, looking slightly dazed. Clarke quickly instructs the police officer who drove them here to take Bellamy to the elevator and wait for her before posting herself by the studio door to wait for Finn to emerge. She doesn't have to wait long.

Finn smiles broadly when he sees her, but Clarke does not let him get a word in.

“I hope you're proud of yourself. That was some really high-class journalism right there. Pulitzer-worthy.”

“It was an opinion from the person most deeply affected by the incident your client is trying to make all about himself. I felt that my viewers as well as your client deserved to be reminded of that.”

“Bullshit. Playing that video was a very transparent ploy to get a rise out of my client and to make him look bad. Your show's been dry for a while now, and you figured you'd spice things up by emotionally manipulating your guest and your viewers with your cheap little trick.”

“Oh, really, you want to talk about emotional manipuation? You've certainly pulled out all the stops to set Blake up as the victim in this, the poor brave hero.”

“I'm not setting him up to be anything; I'm letting him tell his story. He just happens to be the hero in it, whether you like it or not.”

Finn pauses, stares at her for a moment and then lets out a dry laugh. “So apparently, not only are you dating your own client – bonus points for ethics there – but you're so besotted that you believe your own PR fairy tale. I didn't think I'd see the day someone would manage to get under your skin like this.”

For a moment, Clarke is tempted to remind Finn that he's a big part of why she had to steel herself and not let anyone close in the first place; because he broke her heart so thoroughly it took her months to pick up the pieces. She swallows down the bitter retort and forces herself to stay calm and professional.

“What I think or feel about my client has absolutely nothing to do with this. It's my job to be on his side. And if this is how you treat all your guests, you can bet your ass none of my clients will ever be on your show again.”

“Let's hope you still have clients after someone pokes a hole in his story and you both crash and burn.”

“If it comes to that, I'd say that's my problem to deal with.”

Clarke is about to turn away and leave when Finn holds her back with a hand on her arm.

“I only mean well, Clarke. I don't want to see you get hurt when his crazy story is exposed as the plea for attention it clearly is.”

“Oh, so this whole charade was for my benefit?”

“It was to make sure that you, as well as the public, aren't taken for a ride by an ambitious wannabe-politician with a pretty face and a compelling story.”

“See, I don't think I'm being taken for a ride here. I also don't think it's your responsibility to open my eyes to anything. I'm well capable of making my own judgements, and I guess we'll have to agree to disagree on what we think of my client.”

“Clarke...” He turns his best puppy eyes on her, and for a fraction of a second, Clarke has to steel herself against believing that he actually means it, that he actually cares about her. And maybe he does, but he's no longer a part of her life, so that's neither here nor there. She pulls her arm out of his grasp.

“Goodbye Finn.”

This time, he doesn't try to hold her back. She catches up with their police escort and Bellamy by the elevator, shooting a worried sideways glance at Bellamy, who still hasn't said a word. As soon as the doors close behind them, however, he turns to her.

“Did you know?”

Clarke is momentarily taken aback by the abruptness of the question, and he repeats it more urgently. “Did you know he was going to do that?”

“No, I didn't. I was just as surprised as you were. I was ready to tell the producer to go to commercial.” Clarke very pointedly holds his eyes, because what happened today damaged his trust in her, and she needs him to believe her.

“You said you know him. Does he pull crap like this often?”

“Well, I told you he was known for not going easy on his guests...”

“How well do you know him then? Because I feel like this level of assholery should be pretty easy to detect if you've met him more than once before.”

And as much as she dislikes it, Clarke knows this is her moment to come clean about the fact that there may, just may, have been an ulterior motive to Finn's aggressiveness. She takes a deep breath and gathers courage she didn't know she'd need.

“Believe me, I know what assholery he's capable of. He's my ex.”

For a few seconds, Bellamy just stares at her, apparently trying to wrap his head around this information.

“Your ex....boyfriend?”

For a second, Clarke wavers between being embarrassed that she has to disclose this and slightly offended at Bellamy's incredulous tone – is it so hard to imagine her as a person with a love life?

“We were together for a few months, ages ago. Then I found out he actually had another girlfriend he was cheating on with me. I broke it off and told him to get lost, he tried to get me back... It's a whole sordid story, and I did not think I'd have to tell anyone about it anymore.”

“So you're saying I've been shredded on national television because your ex saw a rumour that we were dating and got jealous?”

It sound so utterly ridiculous that Clarke is having troube believing this is actually her life.

“It may have been a factor. I'm not saying it was, mind you. Like I said, we were over years ago.” She looks at him, waits for him to blow up and ask her what he hell she was thinking not telling him about this. But instead of the outbreak she expects, Bellamy starts laughing. Clarke lets him get it out of his system – she's just glad he's not angry.

Bellamy draws a wheezing breath and exaggeratedly wipes a tear out of the corner of his eye. “This is too ridiculous. Honestly, I expected being attacked. I knew Collins' position on my story, and I knew he disliked me the second we first shook hands. I just had no idea he had such a stupid reason.” Clarke raises an eyebrow because, yes, it is a stupid reason, but he doesn't have to make it sound quite so absurd that anyone would get jealous over her. Apparently, Bellamy notices. “I mean, not that it's not perfectly understandable to be jealous of anyone who gets to date you...”

“Charming.”

He flashes her a smile and shakes his head, chuckling again. “You have no idea how satisfying it is to hear that Clarke Griffin, of all people, has a sexual history right out of a soap opera.”

“I was in college! Everyone makes mistakes in college.” Clarke is starting to think that he's having a little bit too much fun with this information.

“I didn't think you'd have, what with your impeccable skirt suits, your poker face and the iron way you run your firm... It's just great to know that, at one point, your life was such a mess. And you know what? After you let me go live on-air with your ex, I think I deserve to gloat a little bit about that.”

He's still grinning, but Clarke can't shake the feeling that his current merriment is a little forced. After all, Finn's irrational jealousy had damn near devastating consequences for Bellamy today.

“If I had seen this coming, I would not have let you go on the show. I'm sorry this happened, Bellamy, I really am, and I hate that my history with Finn played into this.”

He's quiet for a moment, looking at her searchingly, and Clarke feels uncharacteristically nervous.

“I guess you couldn't have known.”

Clarke breathes a silent sigh of relief – he still trusts her.

“So what do we do now?”

“Well, thanks to a very nice producer who may get in trouble later, you actually came across as very sympathetic. So, yes, we'll have to do some damage control. But you know what they say about an image being worth more than a thousand words – and the image you gave off today was that of an honest man who is truly, truly sorry for being involved in something terrible.” She sees a hint of insecurity flaring up in his expression again, but it will have to be shut down. He was put in a crazy situation today, and he got out on top. “You did good today, Bellamy.”

He anwers her smile with a small nod, and if he's feeling half as relaxed as she does right now, Clarke thinks, they've made it through what could have been a disaster with very little damage, no thanks to her. But where Clarke fucked up today, Bellamy came through – they're finally working together again.

And if that wasn't enough to lift Clarke's mood, the discovery Wells makes a little while later definitely is.

The ride home passes quickly and silently, and Clarke practically orders Bellamy to take a break when they get to the apartment. Meanwhile, Clarke, Wells, Jasper and Miller get to work monitoring the slew of incoming media reactions to the interview and drawing up a strategy on how to proceed.

Clarke has just set up another interview two days later, this time with a newspaper, which will allow her more control over the proceedings, when Wells lets out a small cry of surprise. Before she can even ask what's going on, he turns his laptop around so she can see the video playing on the screen.

It's a short clip, but it nonetheless has Clarke staring open-mouthed at the screen by the time it ends.

“That bastard! I thought playing the video in the first place was shitty enough of Finn, but this...” Having given voice to her anger, Clarke can assess the ramifications of Wells' discovery. “Wells, could you go and show this to Bellamy please?”

She is tempted to do it herself, but she's in the middle of writing an urgent e-mail. Besides, Wells discovered this, he should be the one to tell Bellamy. Nonetheless, she envies Wells a little bit as she watches him pick up his laptop and go outside on the roof terrace where Bellamy is sitting, looking out over the city with his back to them.

***

 

Wells wouldn't say he's feeling nervous as he picks up his laptop and walks over to where Bellamy is sitting outside on the terrace. Slightly apprehensive, maybe, and a tiny bit uncomfortable. For all the time they've worked together now, Wells and Bellamy haven't really made any sort of personal connection, not even now that they're living together. Not like Clarke and Bellamy have, who seem to understand each other almost wordlessly by now (when they're not yelling at each other, that is.) And of course that is part of why Wells has kept his distance from their client, but he also has reasons that are far from selfless. Sure, he wants to protect Clarke and Griffin and Associates, to make sure that whatever Clarke is seeing in their client won't end up destroying them all.

But he's also so personally involved in all of this that Wells thinks he's justified in being a little bit wary of the man who might end up getting his father sentenced for instigating or at the very least covering up a war crime, not to mention for getting his best friend almost killed. By all accounts, Wells thinks, he has every reason to hate the man. But hating is not something that comes easily to him, who hates snap judgements and absolutes and black-and-white stories even though most of the time, that is exactly what they're dealing in. He's not like Clarke in that respect, whose judgement is swift and unmovable, who trusts and distrusts quickly and wholeheartedly. Wells is an observer, a skeptic and a follower of the law who nonetheless believes the law should account for shades of grey, and he can count the times he's made rash decisions on one hand. Most of them were for Clarke: Quitting his job to work at Griffin and Associates, deciding to stand by Clarke and Bellamy even against his father – those were decisions he made for her, because he'd follow her to the ends of the earth. His loyalty is limitless, but it is not blind.

But, Wells thinks as he sits down on a patio chair next to Bellamy, maybe it's time to give up his distance and decide where he stands with Bellamy. They're in this together, and if their client's story is true, it's no longer about them, or even about Wells' Dad – it's about a hundred dead people who deserve justice.

At the sound of the chair scraping across the wooden deck, Bellamy looks up from the chessboard on the table before him. Wells has seen the elegant wooden set on a sideboard in the apartment and has been tempted to play himself, but he hasn't really found the time so far. From the look of it, Bellamy hasn't made more than a few moves yet, but with the eye of a passionate chessplayer, Wells can see that Bellamy knows what he's doing.

“I didn't know you played. So who's winning?”

“No one, I'm afraid. My head's not quite in it.”

“Understandable. I may be able to help with that though.” Wells sets down the laptop and hits play on the video. Since he's already seen it a few times, he takes the opportunity to watch Bellamy watch the video instead, taking note of the emotions playing across his face: From curiosity to pain at hearing himself condemned by the son of the man he helped to kill, to anger when the clip doesn't cut off at the same time as it did before and he realizes what Finn did, to relief. With a face as expressive as that, lying should not come easily to Bellamy, and Wells thinks, not for the first time, that maybe he should start trusting the man as much as Clarke apparently does.

“Where did you get this?”

“A British network aired the full version shortly after you were on Collins' show.”

“And it's real?”

“As real as the part you already knew. It's the same video, Finn just had it edited to be shorter. Which is a very common practice, but in your case, it turned the man's message on its head. He was not condemning you, Bellamy. He was thanking you for speaking out and trying to get justice for his family's death.”

Bellamy swallows hard and looks away for a moment, obviously trying to get his emotions under control before he faces Wells head-on once more.

“Thank you for showing this to me. It means a lot.”

Wells nods. He can only imagine the emotional rollercoaster the other man has gone through today, and he's not quite sure what to reply. Before he can think of something, however, his eyes fall on the chess board before him.

“Care to play against a better opponent?”

Bellamy looks from the chessboard to Wells, looking momentarily confused by the sudden change of topic. Then he smiles.

“You any good?”

“I've been playing for fifteen years now, and I've already spotted three moves I would have made better.”

Bellamy chuckles. “Sounds like a challenge.” He picks up the pieces that have been moved already and puts them back in their starting positions while Wells takes the chair opposite him. “Let's go then.”

A few minutes later, they are both so immersed in the game that neither of them notices Clarke leaning in the doorframe, watching them with a thoughtful expression before she moves on. There's nothing quite like a good game of chess for clearing your head, Wells thinks, and from the way his opponent's features relax gradually, he can tell Bellamy agrees.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a little conflicted about introducing Finn as an asshole character here, but I couldn't resist, and I did try to make it clear that he actually had good intentions and thought he was helping Clarke. I hope that scene wasn't too contrived, but so far, I've only ever shown Bellamy getting positive media reactions, and I wanted to show that there's also a backlash to his story.  
> Also, I've been binge-watching The Newsroom, and I think it shows – this chapter is very dialogue-heavy. Oh well, hope you enjoyed anyway.


	20. Chapter 20

Over the days following the eventful interview on Collins' show, playing chess with Wells Jaha becomes a regular thing for Bellamy, a calm contrast to belligerent news anchors, the energetic bustle of their teams and Clarke's punishing intensity in everything she does. They meet on the roof terrace in the evenings, braving the still crisp spring air to get some quiet for their game. Most of the team retreat to the other apartment, which Bellamy has heard them refer to as “the fun apartment” because it apparently has the better entertainment system, including several game consoles that he's pretty sure are the reason Monty and Wick in particular are impossible to talk to in the mornings. Right now, he's guessing they're already deep in whichever fantasy realm they're currently waging war in, because the only ones left in the living room are Octavia, Jasper and Clarke, the former two rifling through singstar DVDs and the latter still furiously typing away at her laptop.

Wells is focusing on the chessboard in front of him, and Bellamy takes the time to study his opponent. Wells' acceptance and loyalty is even more surprising than Clarke's, he thinks – Clarke at least has something to gain from helping him, but Wells? If they get out of this on top, Wells' father my end up in prison or at least facing a great amount of mistrust. Not to mention, if it turns out Thelonious Jaha really did give the order for the attacks on Jake Griffin, Sterling and Clarke and Bellamy... well, Bellamy wouldn't want to be in Wells' shoes, and despite their initially rather reserved relationship, he does feel bad for creating such chaos in the other man's life.

“Have you talked to your father recently?”

Bellamy blurts out the question before he can ponder how inappropriate it is for him to be asking it, and Wells looks up from the board, looking startled for a moment before his expresion turns defensive.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't ask you this. I'm not insinuating you'd be passing information to him or anything, just... this can't be easy for you.”

Wells remains suspicious for only a moment before he relaxes. “I haven't talked to him since the day I joined you at the hotel. I doubt he'd even talk to me, other than to try and convince me to side with him against you and Clarke. He was livid when I brought up the topic.”

“I'm sorry.”

“If he really was involved in all this, I'm not sure I want to be talking to him. And if he wasn't, well, everything can be repaired.” Wells sounds pretty confident, but Bellamy himself has learned to project confidence when he's not feeling any, and he's fairly sure Wells is mainly trying to reassure himself.

“I'm sure you're right. For what it's worth... I'm sorry for causing all this trouble.”

“Don't be. Things are what they are.” Wells' tone is neutral, but it doesn't invite further discussion of the subject, and Bellamy aceepts the unspoken wish and falls quiet as Wells returns his attention to the game. To Bellamy's surprise, Wells speaks again after they've only made a few moves.

“There is something you can do for me.” Before Bellamy can ask what he means, the other man expands: “I need you to make sure Clarke takes it easy, at least for a little while. She's working herself to death, and since I've been harping on about that for years, she's become good at ignoring me. But if you were to tell her the team needs a break, maybe refuse to do quite so many interviews... If she keeps going like this, she'll collapse sooner or later.”

Bellamy looks through the big window to find Clarke still at her laptop, trying to work despite the ungodly ruckus Jasper and Octavia are making as they belt out various pop songs.

“You may be right about that.”

“I'll try and talk to her about it too, but I need someone to make sure she actually does take it easy even when I'm gone.”

“Gone?” Bellamy quickly tamps down on the flash of alarm shooting through him. Surely Wells doesn't mean to quit?

“My father-in-law is turning seventy this week, and they're having a big celebration. My wife will kill me if I'm not there. Not even Clarke can stop me from going; I've already cleared it with Lincoln.”

“Your wife must be quite the woman, to outrank Clarke.”

“She absolutely is.” One look at Wells' smile tells Bellamy how much the other man must miss his wife.

“So when are you leaving for this shindig?”

“I've booked a plane for tomorrow evening.”

“That should be enough time to bring her around.”

“You're probably underestimating how stubborn Clarke can be.”

“Well, maybe you're underestimating how persuasive I can be.” And then, by a stroke of pure genius or, more likely, luck, Bellamy sees the move that will win him this game. With a dramatic flourish, he moves his last piece.

“Checkmate.” Bellamy lets out a triumphant whoop - he's never yet managed to beat Wells. Unfortunately, his gloating is cut short by an incoming call on the other man's phone. Wells mumbles an apology and takes the call, but Bellamy doesn't mind - he's just had an idea. After all, he's been tasked with a mission, so why not get started right away? 

Bellamy strolls inside, plucks the microphone out of Octavia's hand and holds it in front of Clarke, pushing it between her and her laptop screen so that she's forced to tear her eyes off whatever she's working on.

“What do you say, Princess – should we show them how it's done?”

After a beat of startled silence and a grimace that says she can't quite believe she's doing this, Clarke actually gets up, takes the microphone, and follows him over to the TV screen.

Her rendition of Gloria Gaynor's “I will survive”, courtesy of Jasper's seriously messed-up sense of humour, straight-up blows them all away, and when she's done, Octavia whoops and proclaims that they'll be doing a sing-off and that Clarke will be on her team, leaving Bellamy stuck with the completely tone-deaf Jasper. When Wells comes in a little bit later, he gives Bellamy a thumbs up and joins in on the fun.

Eventually, the noise even attracts the rest of the team from next door. Once Raven, Monty, Wick and Miller get over the shock of seeing their de facto boss jumping up and down on a sofa while belting out the Spice Girls, they're all in, however, and Bellamy watches in fond amazement as this bunch of very smart and very professional thirty-somethings start bickering over who gets to hold the microphone during the duets and whether or not well-executed dance moves mean bonus points. He didn't think of it himself, but Wells was right: They all needed a break.

***

 

The next day, after a late night of impromptu singstar-battles that Clarke can only describe as “surreal”, Wells and Clarke are sitting in the back of the armoured towncar Lincoln picked them up in to bring Wells to the airport with a short detour. Her friend uses the time before his departure to lacture Clarke on taking it easy for a few days and giving her team a break.

She's fairly sure he's actually trying to tell _her_ to take a break, because they've had this conversation before and Clarke has always told him that there's nothing wrong with being a workaholic and that she runs just fine on four hours of sleep. But today, Wells is trying a new tactic, and damn if it's not working.

“It's not just the team, Clarke – Bellamy is close to breaking point. Have you looked at him lately?” Clarke resists the urge to confess that she's actually very rarely _not_ looking at Bellamy. “He looks like death warmed over. I'm pretty sure he's not sleeping, and after the debacle with Finn... I think his career will survive if he gets a little less media exposure.”

Clarke has noticed Wells and Bellamy getting closer lately, bonding over chess, but she still didn't think Wells would care quite so much about their client's well-being. But he does, apparently, and Clarke has indeed noticed that Bellamy is not dealing with their situation very well – has witnessed it firsthand the day they moved into the apartment, when he was so adamant about taking all the blame for everything that's happened.

“I'll see what I can do. We could schedule a few interviews with newspapers and the like, those can be done over the phone.”

Wells nods. “Good. And remember when we made that list of team bonding events we were going to introduce before Griffin and Associates really took off and we became way too busy? I think it's time to bring those ideas back. Maybe have a barbecue one of these days, or movie night or something. Or, hell, just let them sleep in for once. I'm pretty sure Monty or Wick will die of a heart attack if they try to survive on energy drinks any longer.”

Clarke laughs. She has noticed Raven sneaking in at increasingly late hours at night after spending the evening gaming away at the other apartment. Maybe an opportunity to catch up on some sleep wouldn't hurt anyone.

“Alright, I'll think of something. And I'll let them sleep in. Happy?”

Wells nods, and as if he had scheduled it this way, the car comes to a halt at their first destination: a parking lot outside a small cemetery. Clarke's fond smile fades as she clambers out the car, the lightness of their conversation replaced by heavy dread. She's managed not to think about this day as much as possible, part of why she's been so intent on work lately, but today, on the anniversary of her father's death, there's no avoiding the memories. Clarke pulls her jacket tighter around her even though the sun is already quite warm today.

Wells puts an arm around her shoulder, a welcome comfort, and they make their way over to the familiar grave. Clarke usually visits it about once a month to tend to the flowers and talk to her Dad, a little island of quiet in the midst of her hectic life. But since she found out the details behind her father's death, she hasn't been back – partly because there's just been too much going on, partly because the painful memories of that night have returned and she just couldn't bear to be here. And it really is every bit as difficult as she imagined, but her oldest friend is here for her, his arm around her shoulders, silent and understanding, and it turns out not to be quite as bad as she expected.

To Clarke's great relief, her mother doesn't show up – maybe she's already been or maybe she'll get here later, or maybe she won't come at all. She doesn't get to dwell on her mother for long, thankfully, because when she eventually turns her back on the grave and they start walking back to the cars, Wells steers the conversation towards lighter topics.

“So, you think you and Bellamy are going to survive living together for much longer without killing each other?”

Clarke laughs. “I think we'll manage. We've gotten much more civil, don't you think?”

“That's one way of calling it.”

She can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “What't that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just that you seem... closer, somehow.”

Clarke's defenses go up even at her friend's gentle probing. Her first instinct is to deny everything, to claim that she still thinks of Bellamy as a self-infatuated, aggravating client and she's just learned to hide her disapproval better. But that would mean lying to her best friend which, history has shown, is not a good idea.

“He's not as bad as I thought. When I got to his apartment, after I was attacked, he was really... sweet.” 

Wells raises a questioning eyebrow but doesn't pressure her for details. “For what it's worth, he seems to genuinely care about your safety.”

Clarke scoffs, because so far, Bellamy's concern for her safety has mostly been expressed in rash decisions and unsuccessful attempts at firing her, but she does appreciate the sentiment.

“And he's completely smitten with you.”

“Excuse me?” In her surprise, Clarke takes a misstep and almost bowls over a vase of fresh flowers standing by a grave. 

“I figured you'd be too busy working to notice it, but at the risk of sounding like a teenage girl, I think he likes you.”

“He likes that I'm saving his ass.”

“That too, obviously, but I'm pretty sure _your_ ass is playing into it too.”

Clarke stares at her friend in mock outrage, then cuffs him on the arm. “Wells Jaha, I am outraged! I wouldn't have brought you here if I'd known you would start discussing my ass.”

“Well, I feel like you don't spend enough time thinking about people's opinion of your ass.”

“And _now_ is the time for me to start? Really?”

“Obviously not. But this situation won't last forever. And once it's done, I think you should work a little harder at getting a life outside of work.”

“I don't need a life outside of work. I love my work. All my friends are at work.”

“I know you do, and there's nothing wrong with that. But you haven't been in a serious relationship since Lexa, and I think you should at least be informed when there's an option opening up.”

“Oh, and my client, whom I'm currently trying to keep from ruining his career and/or going to jail or being killed, is a viable option?”

“That's up to you to decide of course, but if it comes to it, you have my blessing.”

Clarke can't help but laugh. “You are such a dork.”

“But I'm a dork who only wants you to be happy.”

“Yeah yeah. Come on, let's get you on that plane.”

Grinning, Wells throws an arm around her shoulder and they walk the last stretch to the car in comfortable silence.

***

 

Wells' flight has a slight delay which Clarke and Lincoln decide to wait out with him, and so by the time Clarke says goodbye to Lincoln and enters the apartment, it is so late that she doesn't expect anyone to be up anymore. But when she makes her way through the living-room to get a glass of water, a voice speaks up from the direction of the couch and scares her half to death.

“And where are you coming from that was so important you had to ditch the police surveillance and sneak out of here?”

“I didn't ditch the police surveillance, I called Lincoln. I just... didn't want to call a lot of attention to my trip.”

Bellamy's head appears over the head of the couch, a floppy-haired silhouette until Clarke manages to find the light and switch it on. He cocks his head and looks at her, obviously intrigued. “Hiding something from your friends?”

She's tempted to shoot back a biting retort, whether to pick a fight or put him in his place she isn't sure. But today, she doesn't have the energy.

“Actually, I was visiting my father's grave. It's the anniversary of his death.”

The teasing smirk slides off Bellamy'sface immediately, replaced by a stricken expression, and now she feels bad – he couldn't have known, after all.

“I'm so sorry, Clarke, I had no idea...”

She cuts him off with a wave of her hand and then, on impulse, toes off her shoes and walks over to plop down on the couch next to him.

“You're forgiven if you pour me a double of that.” She nods towards the whiskey bottle on the table before him and he chuckles.

“Well, if that's all it takes...” He quickly fetches a tumbler from the liquor cabinet and pours her a generous shot, half of which she downs in one gulp. He watches her for a second, then refills his own tumbler and raises it towards her.

“Let's do this right, shall we? To Jake Griffin.”

Clarke freezes for a second at the name, which still stirs the raw wound within her. From the way Bellamy looks at her, however, she can tell he's wondering if he overstepped his boundaries. She raises her glass and clinks it against his.

“To Jake Griffin. May we find justice for him.”

“We will”, Bellamy replies, and his voice is so full of determination that she can't help but believe him. She gives him a small, appreciative nod and downs the rest of her whiskey, only to find him holding up the bottle again when she looks back at him.

“Now that we've honoured your father, feel free to get wildly drunk. I'm giving you the day off tomorrow.”

Despite the heavy sadness that still seems to press on her chest, Clarke can't help but laugh.

“I wasn't aware that you were my boss, but thank you. I might take you up on that offer.”

And she does. An hour later, they're both lolling about on the couch, laughing hysterically at something on the shopping channel. Once their laughter has calmed down a little bit, Bellamy turns to her, giving her a thoughtful, if slightly unfocused, look.

“You know, you never answered my question when we had our date – are you a romantic?”

To her mortification, a giggle escapes Clarke at the unexpected question.

“Absolutely not. I hate sappy stuff, and I'm terrible at relationships. My last one crashed and burned years ago.”

“Really? You mean you have more skeletons in your closet apart from Collins?”

Clarke grins cheekily, possessed by a sudden uncharacteristic playfulness. “You have no idea.”

“Enlighten me then. Give me more scandalous stories about Clarke Griffin: The college years.” Bellamy's voice is teasing and his smile is bright, the exact opposite of the day she's had so far, and Clarke lets herself be carried away by it, by the promise of a bit of levity after all the fear and grief.

“I have had relationships since college, you know. And there was nothing scandalous about my last one – I met her a few months after my Dad's death, and we were together for almost three years.”

Out of habit, Clarke closely watches for any changes in his expression when she uses the feminine pronoun, but there are none. Either someone from her team let it slip that she's bisexual – not that she goes out of her way to hide it, but she also doesn't generally tell clients – or he's genuinely unfazed by the information.

“Why did you break up?”

Clarke can't believe this is happening, that she's actually going to talk about her deepest personal experiences with Bellamy Blake. Then again, he looks genuinely interested, and if they're going to be stuck in here together for an indeterminate amount of time, they might as well get to know each other better.

“Because she stabbed me in the back.” Seeing his baffled expression, she hastens to explain: “Not literally, of course – she stole one of my clients, the first big name I had managed to secure. She was a consultant, too, and she kind of taught me the ropes when I was completely new to the business, so maybe I should have seen it coming – as a profession, we're nothing if not ruthless. My client's assistant told me she overheard her telling him that I was not ready to take on his case, that he needed someone more experienced. When I asked her if it was true, she didn't deny it. She repeated all this crap about me not being ready, that I was too inexperienced, too emotional, too weak. To this day, I don't know if she actually believed what she said or if she was only trying to justify that she was working with the client two days later.”

“Damn, that's cold.”

“It broke my heart at the time, but now I'm thankful. I toughened up fast after that, and no one ever managed to take anything from me again.” She briefly contemplates refilling her glass, then decides against it. “Sometimes I wonder if that's a bad thing – if I hardened my heart too much, got too mistrustful. But the thing is, many of the cases we deal with at Griffin and Associates begin with a relationship or an affair, with people who put their trust in the wrong person only for things to turn ugly.”

“You'd rather not let anyone close than get hurt.”

“I think it's sensible that way, yes.”

Bellamy looks unconvinced. “Sensible doesn't make for epic love stories though.”

“Maybe I don't want an epic love story.”

“Maybe you just don't know because you've never had one.” He says it lightly, teasingly, but there's something in his eyes, Clarke thinks, something that could mean a lot or nothing at all, and she shudders involuntarily.

Their gazes lock, and for several seconds, Clarke finds it unbearable to hold the eye contact and yet impossible to break it. He licks his lips, a subconscious gesture she must have seen him make a hundred times, and Clarke tilts forward slowly, not even sure which part of her is propelling the movement. Bellamy cocks his head slightly, watching her curiously as if waiting to see what she'll do next, and Clarke...

...chickens out and changes her mind at the last second, veering sideways towards the table to refill her glass after all, because whatever it was she was about to do, she'd very likely regret it in the morning.

Filling her glass with shaking hands, Clarke suddenly feels like an idiot. Was she seriously going to make a move on him a third time? After all, as eagerly as he had responded the first time she kissed him, he hasn't since given her any indication that he'd like a repeat of that night. And yet here she is, drunkenly jumping her client who has enough stuff to deal with and doesn't need her acting like... well, she would say lovestruck puppy, but less flattering terms also come to mind. He has, after all, made quite a few appearances in her mind lately, in that hard-to-control realm between sleep and awakeness. Not to mention the glances she steals at him whenever she's sure he's not looking, or the fact that sometimes when their hands brush, she flashes back to _that_ night as if her very skin remembered his heated touch. It's distracting, unprofessional, and terribly embarrassing when she lets it get out of control the way she did just now, and for a moment, Clarke wonders if she should call it a night before she can make an even bigger fool out of herself. But going to bed means facing the nightmares, and staying here, as awkward as it might be, means Bellamy's companionship, his lighthearted teasing and his smile that works so well at chasing away the darkness of the day.

So she stays, and Bellamy, mercifully, pretends like nothing just almost happened, leaning back and flipping through channels instead while Clarke focuses on her drink for an unneccessarily long time. She only leans back when he finally settles on a channel and his attention is diverted by a blond, overly cheery woman who seems to be making festive food entirely out of pre-bought ingredients. The concept, frankly, baffles Clarke, but Bellamy seems immediately amused. He nudges her thigh with his knee and tells her to pay attention because, apparently, this show is hilarious. It's a comfortable, familiar touch, and it seems intended to assure Clarke that there's nothing to feel awkward about.

So Clarke leans back into the sofa, maybe leaning just a little bit into him as well because she's definitely drunk and she could use a prop. Over the puzzling question how she can simultaneously want to rip his clothes off and snuggle into him in front of the tv, Clarke falls asleep, and if Bellamy minds when her head comes to rest on his shoulder, he doesn't give any indication. On the contrary – he lets her sleep until sunlight is streaming in from the balcony and she wakes up to the sight of a beaming Octavia and a smirking Raven, with a crick in her neck but better rested than she has been in weeks.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, I managed to get another chapter up. I didn't have time to properly proofread, so please forgive any mistakes.  
> Also, this story, excitingly, has been nominated for a Bellarke Fanfiction Award over at tumblr, so if any of you are on tumblr, feel free to vote for it!


	21. Chapter 21

Octavia has been in a few strange situations in her life, including being trapped in arctic pack ice on a tiny research boat, but this may be the strangest, she thinks: Sitting around a table with a bunch of people she didn't even know a few months ago but whom she would now with some confidence call friends, stuffed with excellent steak and watching as Clarke and the very attractive Detective (Octavia chuckles internally as the phrasing pops into her head) argue heatedly about some recent restructuring measures in the metropolitan police force.

Not that Octavia minds the change in pace: They've now been stuck at their hiding-place for almost three weeks, and as much as Octavia enjoys the luxurious surroundings and, more importantly, seeing her brother slowly unwind after the stress of the last months, she has been starting to feel a little bit bored. After all, she's only marginally involved in solving the conspiracy, and her part in Bellamy's campaign as well as her own public work has pretty much come to a halt. Stuck in the apartment, she's reduced to writing the occasional op-ed or blog post and replying to people on social media – which is nice, but Octavia wants to be where the action is, to meet people in person.

The barbecue Clarke has planned for them all tonight is a welcome distraction, made even more welcome by the addition of a guest: On the way back up from the basement gym where she dragged Clarke, they had run into their Detective friend, and Octavia had wasted no time in inviting Lincoln to their planned team barbecue. Clarke had backed the invitation, and Lincoln had only hesitated for as long as it took Octavia to beam at him and bat her eyelashes a few times.

Now Octavia is sitting next to the Detective on the rather beautifully decorated terrace, courtesy of the combined efforts of Jasper and Wick. They've brought out every single candle and tea light they could find in the apartment and hung up garlands that, on closer inspection, are made of old printouts and scrap paper, and Octavia guesses she's not the only one who has been getting a bit bored. Together with the balmy air of one of the first warm evenings of the summer, their improvised decoration creates a lovely atmosphere, and Octavia can't help but notice that the attractive Detective looks even more attractive in the warm light of the candles. After practically interrogating him for most of the evening, Octavia has become more quiet and observant after Bellamy's questions about work on the force escalated into the discussion she's currently watching. But instead of being disappointed that Lincoln's attention is now firmly on Clarke, Octavia is having the time of her life observing the spectacle.

For one thing, she's learning a lot about Lincoln, who is becoming more and more intriguing every time she meets him. He's clearly passionate about the topic, which after all directly concerns his work, but he's staying remarkably calm in the face of Clarke's rather confrontative debating style. He seems to be a man who has no trouble defending his opinions but doesn't feel the need to push them on others, and after her recent glimpse into the world of politics and talk show panels, Octavia finds that refreshing. When he does get a little more animated and gestures to emphasize a statement, she notices that the movements of his hands are strong and sure, and takes a quick mental detour to explore the possibilities of what these hands might do to a woman – herself perhaps, to pick a random example. He also, despite being very involved in the discussion with Clarke, keeps turning towards Octavia on his other side to make sure she doesn't feel neglected, which she finds downright endearing.

And if she does occasionally get bored by all the talk of restructuring funds and hierarchies and communication systems, Octavia only needs to look across the table at her brother, who is also watching the discussion but seems much less amused. In fact, Bellamy is actually glaring at Lincoln with increasing intensity the longer Clarke's attention is on their guest – no doubt he's not used to seeing someone else at the receiving end of Clarke's undivided attention and scathing arguments. Octavia wonders smugly if she's ever seen her brother jealous, because that's exactly what is happening here, she realizes when Lincoln makes a wry joke and Clarke snaps out of her serious debating persona to let out a bright laugh.

But then, to her surprise, Bellamy's dark expression brightens up, the scowl replaced by a look of fond admiration that seems shockingly vulnerable, and Octavia wonders if whatever has been brewing between Clarke and her brother is going deeper than she thought. There's a tenderness in his eyes when he looks at Clarke, who looks different tonight with her hair down and wearing a soft pink sweater, younger and more approachable. Most telling, however, is the fact that Bellamy doesn't give in to his jealousy, doesn't try to cut them off or inject himself into the discussion. Clarke is obviously enjoying herself, and her brother is willing to put his ego on the backburner and let her be, with his selfless streak that Octavia knows all too well.

But as fun as it is to see her brother falling for someone after he's teased her endlessly about every crush she ever had, Octavia can't fight a hint of protective worry sneaking up on her. Because she likes Clarke, she really does, but she's not entirely sure if she'd be the right woman for Bellamy. On the one hand, the two of them have obviously developed a close bond over the past months, and Octavia has sometimes found herself thinking that Clarke seems to understand her brother better than she herself does. Clearly, Clarke showing him how much she trusts and appreciates Bellamy is good for him. Nonetheless, if the emotional change Octavia has noticed in her brother lately really is as serious as she suspects, Octavia can't help but worry that Bellamy is going to get hurt. After all, Clarke is a workaholic, a successful woman in a very competitive field, and Octavia finds it hard to imagine her putting anyone or anything above that – and in Octavia's opinion, her brother deserves to be the top priority in someone else's life, not an afterthought. Then there's the fact that Clarke's investment in Bellamy's case is driven by her own agenda as much as by a desire to help him – so what happens when it's all over?

Octavia doesn't get around to deciding where she stands on the issue before Lincoln addresses her and pulls her back into a conversation, and she doesn't linger much longer on the topic of her brother's feelings after that. It is only later, when everyone is getting up to clean off the table and Octavia offers to walk Lincoln to the door, that she does get a little more optimistic about the situation: Monty orders Clarke to stay seated while the others clean off the table, and when Bellamy gets up to help, Clarke lays a hand on his arm and pulls him back into his seat.

“You too.” Bellamy doesn't resist but smiles and sits back down, and as Octavia looks back at them from the door, they're looking at each other, talking quietly and exchanging soft smiles. They both look more relaxed than usually, bodies turned towards each other, perfectly in sync and at peace, and maybe right now this is all that counts.

And after all, Octavia thinks as she catches up with Lincoln by the door, her brother's a grown-up, he'll have to make his own choices, mistakes included. She has her own heart to look after, among other things.

When Lincoln turns to her to say goodbye, she quickly walks past him onto the elevator, smiling brightly, and her heart skips a beat when he grins back after catching up on what she's doing.

“It's very nice of you to walk me all the way to the front door, but I'm pretty sure I would have found it on my own.”

The teasing tone of his voice is gentle and reassuring, and Octavia finds that she likes it. “I needed to stretch my legs after eating all those steaks.”

Lincoln nods understandingly. “That was the best food I've had in a very long time. Thanks again for inviting me.”

“Thank _you_ for joining us. It was nice to get to know you a little bit better.”

To Octavia's surprise, her well-intentioned words cause his smile to be replaced with a frown. “It was also very unprofessional of me. I shouldn't be this involved with people whose case I'm working on.”

“So why did you stay?”

In the span between her question and his answer, a nervous flutter settles into her stomach.

“I couldn't resist the temptation to get to know you better myself.”

The nervous flutter is drowned out by a rush of relief. So she's not imagining things – her attraction to him is indeed mutual. As she suspected before, Lincoln is a man who makes up his mind and then doesn't hold back, who has no intention of playing hide and seek. Blunt and impatient herself, Octavia likes this about him too.

“How did that quote go - 'the only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it'?” Octavia holds his gaze. “Maybe there's something to that.”

There's a long moment of silence, and Octavia likes to think it is a meaningful silence, one that is not an absence of conversation but a chance to look at each other, really look, without any distractions, without having to pay attention to other people, and Octavia feels strongly and suddenly that she wants to do this more often. She barely knows the man, but everything she's seen so far makes her want to spend more time with him. 

But before she can do or say anything, the elevator stops and the doors open to let in an elderly couple, forcing them to break eye contact as they walk off the elevator, and then they're already by the doors and it's time to say goodbye because unfortunately, this is as far as she's allowed to go. Lincoln turns to her once more, looking slightly wistful.

“I had a great time tonight, but I should not accept any other invitations before the case is closed.”

“I understand.”

Unlike before in the elevator, the silence that falls now actually is a little awkward, the unsettling but exciting silence of two people who should say goodbye but can't quite bring themselves to do so. Briefly, Octavia wonders if she should just go for it and kiss him, but after he has just shown her how important it is for him to keep a professional distance, she feels it would be disrespectful and intrusive. Still, she's not just going to let him walk away.

“Maybe once you're done with our case, we could go out for a drink or something.” Octavia would consider herself a brave person, but the moment she says it, her heart starts beating at twice its normal speed, and she has to force herself not to look away nervously.

The smile blossoming across his face after a second's pause is reward enough for her courage, she thinks.

“I'd like that.”

On impulse, Octavia holds out her hand. Kissing him would be inappropriate, yes, but surely a handshake is nothing but professional? Lincoln only looks surprised for a moment before he laughs and starts shaking her hand enthusiastically. They draw out the gesture as long as possible, both trying to get whatever direct contact they can before the doorman, who has been holding open the door this whole time, lets out a subtle but unmistakeably impatient cough and they finally let go.

“I'll see you soon then, Octavia.”

He looks at her once more before walking out the door, and she watches him practically skipping down the few stairs to the pavement before the door closes. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots the doorman rolling his eyes at their antics, but Octavia doesn't care – she's too busy mentally replaying the way he said her name. Who knows, maybe it'll be an open-and-shut case? Or maybe he'll give in to temptation after all. Either way, Octavia thinks, “soon” can't come soon enough for her.

***

 

While Octavia is busy wondering how long it will take until Lincoln has solved their case and no longer needs to worry about being unprofessional, Clarke and Bellamy are sitting on the terrace and enjoying the quiet that falls after Monty, Jasper and Miller have cleaned off the table. Raven and Wick have used the general chaos after dinner to sneak off, no doubt for some private downtime, and Octavia has suddenly become the picture of good manners and insisted on accompanying Lincoln to the door. She hasn't returned for several minutes yet, so Clarke guesses Octavia is being polite all the way to the front door downstairs.

While their busy helpers bustle about in the kitchen, Clarke concludes that the evening was a success. She took a picture on her phone before to send it to Wells, proof that she's putting into action one of their teambuilding activities, and looking at it for a moment before she hits send, she sees nothing but relaxed, smiling faces. Less than a minute later, Wells answers with a silly selfie with his wife and his very obviously drunk father-in-law that makes her smile. All in all, Clarke thinks as she leans back in her very comfortable chair, everyone seems to be dealing reasonably well with the extraordinary circumstances.

“What are you smiling about?” That's Bellamy, who Clarke is fairly sure has been watching her for a while now.

“Nothing, really. Just happy that we had such a nice day.”

“I would have thought you'd hate not having any work to do.”

Clarke shrugs. “So did I, but it was actually alright. Octavia dragged me to the gym for a few hours, and after that, I didn't have much energy left anyway.”

He looks surprised for a moment, then pleased. “So you and Octavia are getting along well?”

“I'm fairly sure she tried to kill me with her workout, but other than that, she's pretty great.”

Bellamy laughs, in that fond, exasperated way he has when he's talking about his sister. “I'm glad to hear that. I thought you'd regret involving her because she's such a wildcard – impossible for you to control.”

“So did I, but to be honest, she gets the best results when she goes rogue. Who am I to stand in the way of that?”

“You certainly know how to best harness everyone's talents, don't you? So what was your strategy for me?”

“Pretty much the same – unleash you on the public and let you work your magic.”

“Magic? Not that I know of, but I'm certainly flattered.”

“Oh, don't be coy. It doesn't suit you.”

“What does suit me then?” His cocky grin fades as he looks at her, earnestly inquiring.

“Being yourself.” His eyes light up at the compliment and Clarke thinks she'll never get used to the way he looks whenever she reminds him of his potential. The way he stills, as if scared that she'll take back her words, the hint of wonder in his smile – those things are made all the more beautiful in contrast with the times she's seen him racked with guilt and worry. The intensity with which she wishes she could make him look like this all the time scares her, and Clarke quickly backpedals.

“Your voters will love it.”

Bellamy's expression changes, closing off the tiniest bit, and Clarke feels like an idiot for dragging their personal conversation back into a work context. Where's the harm in a simple compliment? Surely by now they are comfortable enough around each other that it can't be considered flirting. And even if it was.... Clarke doesn't allow herself to go down that road. After all, it was only ever her who was on the verge of starting something, and even if she discounts the events after both attacks as an expression of trauma and almost kissing him the night after visiting her father's grave as a result of too much whisky, she thinks there's no need to go and be rejected a third time – or, worse, to not be rejected and further blur the lines between them. It's better to ignore the many, many unprofessional thoughts she has of him throughout the day and hope that her unhealthy attraction will go away again someday.

Unfortunately, there is nothing to indicate that that will be the case. On the contrary, when she's lying in bed much later, Clarke still can't close her eyes without seeing Bellamy before her, his eyes glittering in the flickering candlelight, soft and inquisitive and focused entirely on her in that way that makes her squirm, whether with nervousness or anticipation she's never quite sure. And as much as she'd like to tell herself that those thoughts are only due to having too much time on her hands right now, she's starting to think that there might be more behind her inappropriate fixation on her client's eyes and hands and lips and...

The word client really does not seem to apply anymore, but what else would she call him? Partner, maybe? Friend even? Their utter trust in each other suggests the former, their increasingly companionable intimacy the latter. But neither term accounts for that other element of their relationship, the thing that makes her skin hum with electricity whenever they touch, however casually, that makes something inside her tighten in an instinctive response whenever he's close enough that she can feel his body heat and smell his cologne.

With a frustrated groan, Clarke throws the blanket off her overheated body, sick of tossing and turning. She exchanges her sweaty pyjama top for a light camisole and quietly pads out to the kitchenette to get some water, grabbing a hair tie and sweeping up her sweat-dampened curls on the way.

She gulps down an entire glass of water and then turns back to the sink to refill it, getting momentarily distracted by the sight of the clear water swirling down the drain as if it were mimicking the swirl of confused thoughts in her head.

“Can't sleep?”

Clarke jumps in surprise at Bellamy's deep voice, so close to her that she wonders how she didn't hear him approach. By now she can actually _feel_ him, a warm presence that makes the very air around her come alive, lined up with her back without actually touching her. It doesn't feel as unnerving as it should, and Clarke stays rooted in place.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

His hands go around her to turn off the tap and take the full glass from her, caging her in his arms for a second before he lifts the glass out of sight. She can hear him taking a few gulps of water before setting it aside.

“That's because you're still too tense and jumpy.” And before she can point out that a few weeks of forced rest and relaxation don't cancel out months of stress and fear, his hands are on her shoulders, warm and sure, starting to knead the muscles which, despite the afternoon's trip to the gym, are cramped and tight from spending so much of her time bent over a laptop. Clarke barely manages not to moan out loud at how good it feels.

“There's no point in you ruining your health over this, you know.” He's increasing his pressure on the tense muscles of her shoulders now, enough to almost hurt. “If you're always this tense, you really should see a massage therapist. Do some yoga maybe.”

“Is the lecture mandatory or can I just enjoy the massage in silence?” Granted, her bravado is mostly meant to keep her from melting into a puddle at his feet, but Bellamy chuckles and falls silent anyway.

Clarke should be relieved about this because it means he's no longer talking right by her ear, his voice rumbling straight through her, but unfortunately, the silence just makes it easier to focus on the sensations his hands are creating. He's working his way across her shoulders and upper back, varying in technique and intensity to slowly loosen out the knots in her back. Clarke wonders where the hell he learned to do this so well, but before she can utter the question, his fingertips start moving up the side of her neck to the base of her skull, and now she does moan, if only quietly. He lingers there for a while before working his way down again, across her shoulders and down to her lower back, skillfully loosening the tight knots in her back, and Clarke gradually loses all control over herself. She's relatively sure she manages to keep her expressions of approval down so as not to wake Raven and Octavia, but at some point when his hands make their way down her arms, she finds herself leaning back into him, eyes closed and head thrown back against his bare shoulder, and she doesn't dare to think about what she looks like right now.

Whatever he's thinking, Bellamy keeps it to himself. But once Clarke focuses on more than just the feeling of his hands on her, she notices little signs that he's not quite as unaffected as she fears – his breath quickens by her ear every time she makes another appreciative sound, and when she leans against his chest, her bare skin meeting his above the top of her camisole, she can feel his heart racing against her back. There's nothing left of the pretense of a friendly massage now, his hands are just idly stroking up and down her arms, leaving fire in their wake and soothing it at the same time. She can feel even the tiny movement of him leaning his head forward to where her neck is bared to him, a sign of her trust in him that is as instinctive as it is absolute.

For a moment that feels like an eternity Bellamy doesn't move, just breathes in slowly, and Clarke finds herself torn between the urge to do something to trigger him into action and the irrational wish to remain like this forever, perched on the brink of opportunity without having to face the risks of actually jumping.

Then his hands tighten on her arms and he breathes out again shakily, the warm air of his exhale meeting her skin like the softest ghost of a touch. It sends desire straight through her and makes her hips tilt back into him, her back arch in an attempt to get closer, this movement too driven by instinct... and suddenly his hands freeze and he steps back, leaving her reeling at the sudden loss of contact. She manages to hold on to the sink before she loses her balance, but his abrupt retreat makes reality come crashing back and it finally sinks in that she was about to wantonly grind into him in the middle of the suite they're sharing with her friends and his sister.

Clarke feels her face heat up with humiliation at being rebuffed once again, but his voice is soft when he asks:

“Better?”

That question is pretty much impossible to answer, so Clarke doesn't turn around. She's too afraid of what he'll think when he sees the way desire, fear and embarrassment are battling for control over her, so she only nods.

“Good.” And then he presses a soft kiss to the back of her neck that makes goosebumps break out all the way down her back, and she's just glad she's still holding on to the sink. “Now try and get some sleep.”

It is this last confusing gesture that makes Clarke's mood tip over. One second ago, she was mortified. Now, she's just angry. She whirls around to see him halfway to his room and doesn't even bother keeping her voice down when she calls after him.

“What the fuck are you playing at?”

He stops in his tracks, letting one second pass, then turns around slowly while Clarke catches up with him before the bedroom doors.

“The night after I was attacked, you rejected me. The night we got drunk after I visited my Dad's grave, I almost kissed you and you acted like nothing happened. I figured you just weren't interested and backed off. And now you're being all seductive...,” he smirks at the description but Clarke doesn't let him get one of his cocky comments in, “so I have to wonder – do you want me or not? Because I can't figure it out, and I'm not going to start playing games.”

His expression changes so quickly it makes her mind reel, going from amused to stormy as he takes the last step that kept them apart.

“Oh, I want you, Princess, make no mistake about that. But I don't want to be the guy you turn to when you're drunk or shell-shocked or grieving.”

His answer should probably give her pause, and for a second, it does. But there's still too much adrenaline coursing through her veins, too much of a challenge on his face for her to back down.

“So what, you don't trust me to make my own bad decisions?”

“I do. I just don't want to be one of them.”

As her anger slowly drains out of her, Clarke looks up at him, a picture of barely contained tension. There's something she doesn't quite get here, something that got lost in translation – if he wants her and she's been less than subtle about wanting him, where the hell is the problem? Does he actually think the only thing she'd want from him is mindless sex – after all they've been through? Is he unable to believe they could have a future apart from drunk, adrenaline-fuelled fumbles? Is she?

For all her aptitude at shaping other people's conversations, now that it comes to communicaing her own feelings Clarke is completely at a loss.

“Bellamy...”

It is at this very inopportune moment that the door behind Bellamy opens to reveal a sleepy-looking Octavia.

“What the hell is going on out here?” She looks back and forth between them as they slowly step apart. “Do you guys think you could at least keep your bickering down at night so that the rest of us can get some fucking sleep? Seriously! Both of you, off to bed, now!”

Clarke hesitates, resistant to the idea of obeying anyone's commands and itching to get to the bottom of the riddle that is Bellamy's contradictory behaviour, but Octavia, especially a tired, grumpy Octavia, does not look like she'll humour any further delay to her sleep. And if she is perfectly honest, Clarke is a tiny little bit relieved to have an excuse to get away from him, get a chance to at least try and make some sense of what the hell is happening with her. Or, better yet, get some sleep and try to forget about what could have happened just now and what she wanted to happen, judging by the ache deep within her and the way her heart still races.

But sleep is hard to come by until Clarke finally decides that she'll just have to confront him tomorrow and make him spell it out for her, because if there's one thing she can't stand, it is not knowing where she stands with people.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took so long to write and is so full of muddled feelings that I'm a little nervous it won't make any sense. I'm trying to keep track, but those two idiots' emotions are all over the place. (As is the timeline, I'm afraid.)  
> Also, I don't even care about originality, massages are the best.


	22. Chapter 22

Clarke never gets to put her decision to confront Bellamy into action, as the morning after their little moment brings a visitor with important news: Lincoln stops by and informs them that the police have managed to trace one of the bullets back to a man named John Murphy. The look on Bellamy's face immediately makes it clear that the name is familiar to him.

“Murphy?! He was on my team. We went through basic training and a few tours together, but I hadn't heard from him since I was discharged. Last I heard, he was rising through the ranks, fast.”

Lincoln looks at him shrewdly and says what they're all thinking: “So he'd have a good reason not to want you to go public about the night of the assassination?”

Bellamy shrugs. “I guess so. But to start killing people? He could be a bit rough from time to time but...” he stops, his expression suddenly changing from scepticism to outright dread. “Oh God, he was the first of my old teammates I contacted. I didn't tell him I wanted to go public, but I asked him for a few things I wasn't quite sure about anymore. I told him it was for therapy.”

“When was that?” Lincoln's face is serious, and they all know what he's thinking.

“I'm not sure, a little after I started working with Griffin and Associates.” Bellamy swallows, and when he continues, his voice is shaking: “He called back a few days later, suggesting we go out for a beer sometime. Then he asked if I had remembered or found out anything else about that night, if I had talked to anyone else... I told him I hadn't but that I had found Sterling's address and was going to talk to him... That was a few days before the shooting at Clarke's office.” He shakes his head. “I can't believe I didn't piece this together sooner. When I called him about testifying, he was really evasive. I figured he just didn't want to get in trouble as a whistleblower – the other witnesses were all discharged, but he was still on active duty and on his way up.”

There is silence as everyone takes in this information, no one quite knowing what to say. Octavia is the first to jump back into action.

“Do you know where he lives?”

Bellamy shakes his head. “I contacted him on facebook, we wrote a few messages and then I gave him my cell phone number so we could talk. He talked about being in DC for only a few days, so I'm guessing he doesn't live here.”

“He doesn't.” Lincoln provides the information. “He lives on the army base where he's been stationed for the last few years. But he's been on extended leave for the past two months.”

“I'm guessing you don't know where he is right now?” Clarke doesn't feel hopeful about the answer to her question, and indeed, Lincoln shakes his head.

“His last credit card purchase was for a plane ticket to Washington National Airport, but he hasn't used it since then. I'm guessing either he withdrew some private funds to pay in cash while he's staying here, or someone is helping him out.”

“You think he's still in town?”

“He's not on any passenger list, so if he left, he didn't fly out. And since he was presumably the one who shot at you, it is likely that he was also the person who attacked Clarke. In fact," Lincoln addresses Clarke, "I'd like to show you a photo of him, see if you can identify him as your attacker.”

Clarke nods and steps closer to the Detective to look at the photo he's taking out of the folder in his hands. It shows a scowling man with dark hair and piercing blue eyes, and she nods in recognition. She'll remember those cold eyes forever, as well as the icy fear she felt that night when she was alone with him in her office and fighting for her life.

Bellamy's brisk voice prevents her from reliving the memory. “So what are you doing to catch him?”

“We've increased security around this building, we've sent out an APB and alerted all airports and train stations. We'll continue tracing his credit card, but since he hasn't used it so far, it doesn't seem likely he'll use it again.”

“What about his phone? E-mail?” Bellamy sounds desperate by now, and Clarke can empathize – the mere thought that this man might be prowling the city right now, looking for them, is terrifying.

“We can't find a location on the phone, he must have switched it off, or even destroyed it. And he hasn't sent any e-mails on any addresses registered to his name or accessed from his home IP address. He went completely off the grid, but he may have contacts here helping him.”

Clarke's heart sinks at the thought that one of those contacts might be Thelonious. The moment Lincoln first mentioned finding their attacker, she had hoped that meant her best friend's Dad was in the clear. Now she realizes it means no such thing. Even if Murphy planned the attacks alone after Bellamy alerted him to his plans of revealing the massacre, that still doesn't explain who killed her Dad – and who tipped them off about what he was working on at the time. So not only does she still not know who killed her Dad, but the police, while knowing the identity of their attacker, are nowhere near catching them and making sure they won't come after them again. Bellamy is far from safe. Desperation grips her for a moment, the hopeless sense of fighting an uphill battle against an invisible foe. But then she looks around, takes in her team's worried expressions, Bellamy's dejected posture, and Clarke pulls herself together enough to smile at Lincoln.

“Thank you for telling us this. It's good to know that your investigation is progressing, and at least now we know to keep an eye out for this guy.”

Lincoln nods and looks like he wants to say more, a promise maybe that he'll find Murphy, that he'll keep them safe. Clarke is glad when he doesn't – she knows a white lie when she hears one, and she'd rather stay realistic about their situation right now.

The Detective leaves quickly after that, leaving the photo behind for them all to memorize, and Clarke sits next to Bellamy on the sofa.

“Were you close to this John Murphy?”

He shrugs. “Maybe not close, exactly, but... we come from the same kind of background. We both signed up for the army because we didn't have any other options, and we bonded over being angry at the world. And then of course shipping out together, you spend a lot of time together, waiting and killing time and hoping you'll survive the next month. We had a few beers in the evenings, spent our free time working out and playing cards together, that kind of thing. We all lost contact after I was discharged – I guess no one wanted to keep being reminded of what we did that night.”

Clarke doesn't know what to say, and she doesn't get a chance to figure it out either, as her phone rings that very moment. It's Wells, so she picks up, and is soon glad that she did. Wells tells them to turn on the TV because there are new developments in their case, and five minutes later, the whole team is practically glued to the TV and their various phones and laptops to find every bit of information on the momentous development.

Apparently, Bellamy's statement has led the government of the country where the massacre happened to reinvestigate the crime, with stunning results: the police reports of the family killed by Bellamy's team had been tampered with, so subtly that only a thorough examination would even show it – an investigation that had not happened after the assassination, for various political reasons. The country's current government, however, does not need an excuse to bomb a militant base, but the governing party are all too happy to show their independence from US interference by taking a strong stance on any misbehaviour by US troops – meaning that Bellamy suddenly has an unexpected ally in taking a stand against the powers that be. And what the government-helmed investigation has found is clear: The police who secured the crime scene at the time found traces that make it more than likely that the story of a raid by local extremists was fabricated. The official reports make no mention of these remarks, but dogged research and the brave statement of a police officer involved in the initial investigation have led the new government task force to conclude that all traces point to one thing: Bellamy's story checks out.

One day later, they are contacted by the DA with the request for Bellamy and Harper to appear at a hearing about the events of their deadly mission that very same week, spurring the team into action. Everything they have found on the mission is looked over once more and then sent to the hearing committee for consideration. In the meantime Clarke, Wells and Bellamy are working on Bellamy's answers, possible strategies and pitfalls that could come up during the hearing, aided by Jasper and Nathan who try to find out who will be on the hearing committee and which way they're likely to lean, all while keeping an eye on current media reporting and public opinion on the issue. They only have a few days, and they need to make the most of it. They've relaxed enough.

***

 

The evening before the hearing, they're all simultaneously exhausted from working tirelessly and wound up with nervous tension, knowing full well how important tomorrow is going to be. By ten pm, Clarke finally decides that they're as ready as they'll ever be, and tells them all to pack up for the night. They need to be fresh and well-rested tomorrow, Bellamy in particular, and Clarke notes with relief when he gets up without protest and walks out on the balcony to get some fresh air while she and the team start cleaning up the mess of notes and records and the assorted debris that accumulates when people work hard for an extended time in an enclosed space - which means mostly candy wrappers and empty pizza cartons, in fact. 

Clarke doesn't remember consciously deciding to follow him, but five minutes later she too is standing on the balcony, approaching Bellamy with a bottle of Merlot and two glasses. She's pulled the boss card for once and left her team to do the clean-up, and really, she and the Merlot are doing important work for Bellamy's mental stability, she tells herself. It may not be the best idea to drink alcohol on the evening before their big day, but if he's anywhere near as nervous as she is, Bellamy could probably use something to calm down a litle before bed.

She joins him by the railing, setting the glasses down to fill them both and hand him one. He takes the glass gratefully but doesn't start a conversation, probably still too worn out from all the talking he had to do the last few days. Clarke doesn't mind; she too could do with a moment of silence – they haven't really had one of those since learning their attacker's identity, and Clarke realizes she missed that. She wonders if part of it had to do with what happened the last time they were alone together, and if that means one or both of them have been avoiding the other. The thought makes her sad – it shouldn't be too hard to find common ground here, should it?

For a while they stand quietly side by side, leaning on the railing, sipping wine and looking down on the city. Clarke wonders if now would would be a good moment to have the talk she has decided they need to have, and chastises herself for the thought the next moment. She doubts he's in the mood for silly stuff like that right now – he probably has his head full of tomorrow's hearing, as he should.

Clarke is distracted from making a decision by the sight of a streak of light shooting across the sky.

Bellamy, too, must have noticed it. “Did you see the shooting-star? You don't see a lot of those over a bright city sky.”

Clarke hums in agreement. “I hope you made a wish.”

He turns his head to look at her, eyebrows raised in surprise. “I thought you weren't a romantic.”

“Maybe I should give it a try.” Clarke could bite her tongue the seconds the words are out because it sounds an awful lot like she's hinting at something more, and it doesn't exactly help that she's holding his gaze as if she was trying to tell him that she is, but somehow Clarke can't seem to bring herself to look away. Neither can she apparently stop herself from leaning closer into him, drawn by that force she detected in him on their very first meeting that is never stronger than when she tries to resist it.

The sudden blare of an ambulance in the streets below startles her out of her daze, and Clarke uses the excuse of refilling her empty wine glass to turn away from him. When she meets his eyes again after taking a long draft of wine, he has the expression of someone who just made a very important decision.

“About the other night...” Something in his tone suggests he's about to apologize for what happened, and Clarke feels uneasy at the prospect. But at least he broached the topic, which means he was thinking about it too. The thought emboldens her.

“Did you mean it?” she cuts him off. “What you said that night – that you want me, and not just for physical release kind of situations – did you mean that?”

She's not sure what she expects him to do – come up with something evasive and meaningless? Brush her off with a flirtatious comment?

What she does not expect is his actual answer; short, sure, determined: “Yes.”

His tone leaves no doubt, and neither does the way he holds her eyes. Clarke feels a shiver run down her spine that has nothing to do with the gentle breeze out here on the balcony. She sets aside her wine glass, which gives her an excuse to break that damned meaningful eye contact and steady her shaking hands before she asks the second question that has been on her mind constantly since the other night:

“So why did you stop?”

Clarke unconsciously holds her breath, readying herself to retreat and shut herself off again after her moment of courage. If he makes a joke out of this, makes her feel ashamed for what she wants, how much she wants it, she doesn't think they'll have a repeat of this conversation. But his expression remains serious as he pauses for a moment, the way he does before he gives a speech, waiting until his audience's attention is focused on him alone. Not that Clarke is the least bit distracted - a UFO could drop out of the sky behind her and she wouldn't notice right now.

“Because I want to do this properly. To wait until you're no longer forced to spend time with me and then see if you'd still like to. I was going to ask you out after the hearing, on a real date this time.”

She sneers. “Because I'm a stuck-up princess who insists on sticking to protocol?” She doesn't think he still sees her like that, but the thought alone still stings.

For once, he doesn't rise to the bait. “No, because I figure there's not a lot of overlap between people you have rushed adrenaline-fuelled sex with and people you actually get serious with.”

Clarke's heart stops a little at the words – so now they're talking about getting serious? She mostly brought this topic up because she hates leaving things so uncertain, and because, well, it's not exactly conducive to her work to be constantly thinking about her client naked. Or at least so she thought. But looking at him now, she isn't so sure if that's really all there is to it.

Apparently, she's been silent for too long, because Bellamy seems to get impatient. “And just so we're clear here, I'd like to be in the second category.”

Clarke freezes, rather unneccesarily because, well, he pretty much said the same thing before, just a few nights ago, if a little more agitatedly, and she should not be terribly surprised that he hasn't completely changed his mind on the issue. And yet, now that she hears it, realizes how much it is exactly what she wanted to hear, Clarke is completely at a loss for what to do.

Feeling like a coward, she averts her eyes to look down on the brightly lit city. She suddenly remembers what Wells told her when she wasn't sure if she could handle taking over Griffin and Associates: “ _Sometimes you just have to jump and hope for the best_.”

When she looks back up, Bellamy's eyes are still on her, dark and warm, and there's strange power in being looked at like that. She wouldn't say she's at all ready to jump yet, but she's ready to at least peek over the edge.

Not that she gets around to telling him that, because the next thing she knows, Bellamy growls “Oh, fuck it!” and then he's kissing her and it's everything she anticipated and so much more than she remembered. And if his words didn't make it clear yet, his kiss certainly does: He wants her, possibly as much as she wants him, and Clarke is suddenly overcome with the kind of soaring joy that feels like his smiles look like.

This kiss is a little less forceful than the frantic kisses they shared before, but it still makes her glad that she can lean against the balcony railing for support when he gently traces her upper lip with his tongue and she yields willingly. Thoroughly satisfied with this solution to their dilemma, Clarke lifts her arms to his neck and pulls him closer. The gesture is enough for him to abandon all traces of hesitation, kissing her with abandon instead, and Clarke is only too happy to lose herself in the delicious push and pull, pressing herself against him and giving as good as she gets. After an infuriatingly short time, however, he pulls away, grinning smugly. Clarke makes a protesting noise and holds on to the back of his neck to try and keep him in place. She's wanted this too much to let it be over so quickly.

“Greedy, are we?”

“Shut up.” Luckily for his own lifespan, he complies and starts pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to her neck that make her claw her hands into his shoulders just to stay upright.

“Bellamy...” she sighs out his name and he sucks at her pulse point, pressing himself against her so she's trapped between the balcony railing and his hard body – not that she minds. When he wedges his thigh between her legs, the friction makes the raging fire within her much better and much worse all at once, and she lets out a small whimper that prompts him to chuckle, the sound vibrating straight through her body from all the points where they're pressed against each other.

His right hand somehow finds its way underneath her sweater, causing her to shiver when his fingertips brush across the sensitive skin of her stomach. It's too much and not enough at the same time, his lips and his hands speaking of a hunger he's restrained for a long time, and she can feel his shoulders tense with the effort of holding them both up because her legs have given up all pretense of cooperating. A soft groan escapes him when his hand brushes her nipple, hard underneath the thin lace of her bra, and she rocks against his thigh because she needs more, she needs to feel all of him, against her and inside her and...

He has the nerve to pull away _again,_ breathing hard.

“We have to stop.”

If she had the ability to form words yet, Clarke would tell him that under no circumstances is he to stop now. Unfortunately, she's too busy just trying to breathe, still, she realizes with sudden embarrassment, rocking softly against him.

“Trust me, I really, really don't want to stop,” he tilts his hips towards her and she gets a pretty good idea of what he wants instead, “but I also don't want to risk my sister or any of our friends catching us in the act.” He ghosts a row of kisses from the side of her neck down to her collarbone and murmurs: “Besides, the next time we have sex, I want to have nothing on my mind but you.”

Clarke sucks in a sharp breath at the words and the unbearably tempting mental images they conjure up, of him in her bed, draped over her naked body to explore every inch of her skin with those gentle, electrifying hands of his. Still holding on to his shoulders, she allows herself to enjoy the feeling of his body practically wrapped around hers as she waits for her thundering heartbeat to slow down, his lips still nestled in the crook of her neck.

When she slowly lets go and he draws back, they just stare at each other in breathless wonder for a long moment. Wide-eyed and flushed, he's looking at her as if she holds the answers to every question in the universe. Her heart seems to pound in time with the realization that this is more than just physical attraction, that she may really want him in her life and not just in her bed; that his hands and lips may make her body thrum with need but the sight of him right now makes her heart ache.

But as the silence draws on, that hint of insecurity sneaks onto his face again, and Clarke thinks petulantly how unfair it is that a man like him is so prone to doubting himself when much weaker men stride around with all the confidence in the world. _Trailer Trash_ , that's what he said his opponent called him. She wonders how on earth he can still be struggling to prove his worth, wonders if he even knows how much of his strength and compassion comes from going through that very same struggle.

She quickly presses another kiss to his lips, not quite chaste but not sensuous enough to break down his (or her own) resolve. To be honest, the idea of waiting a little longer until they're less distracted by other things is not entirely unattractive.

“I'm looking forward to our date. A real one this time.”

His bright smile is almost enough to make up for the fact that he lets go of her and steps back, picking up the two glasses and the half-empty wine bottle to carry them inside. At the door, he turns to look at her once more, letting his eyes wander over her as if he wants to memorize every detail of the way she looks right now – no doubt just as flushed and dishevelled as he does.

“Goodnight, Clarke.”

She smiles, and there's a part of her that is ridiculously proud at how husky his voice sounds because _she did that_.

“Goodnight, Bellamy.”

After he's disappeared inside Clarke allows herself a moment to make sense of this development, waiting for a flash of panic or regret that, startlingly, does not occur. In fact, Clarke realizes, she's suddenly feeling a kind of euphoric lightness that she decides to pragmatically label 'cautious optimism'. She may be nowhere near ready for anything that's going to happen tomorrow and beyond, but at least now she has learned two very reassuring things: She knows that she enjoys kissing Bellamy even without going through a near-death-experience, and she knows that, whatever tomorrow brings, she has something to look forward to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, they finally kissed (again). Kissing, it turns out, is insanely difficult to write.  
> Sorry for all you Murphy-fans, but he's a bad guy in this one. (Although it's not like him trying to kill Bellamy is entirely unprecedented.) Also, I know not setting the war crime story in a specific country makes it sound kind of weird sometimes, but I didn't want to use a real place as setting.


	23. Chapter 23

The hearing the next morning is not public, and so Clarke, Miller and Octavia nervously wait outside as Bellamy braves the hearing committee, Wells by his side as his legal representation. Wells flew in as soon as they received the date for the hearing, and has been a pillar of support since then – even though it can't have been easy for him to go up against his father in such a public and official capacity. Clarke has already decided that as soon as this is all over, Wells will get as much paid leave as he needs to finally take his wife on that big holiday they've had to put off for years because Griffin and Associates has been going so well. But for now, Clarke is just glad to have her best friend here.

Monty, Jasper and Wick are the only ones who stayed behind at the apartmet. They've wanted to come along too as a show of support, but in the end Clarke is glad they didn't. The hallway outside the hearing room is already packed with press, many of whom identify Clarke and try to get a statement from her while they wait. Octavia's death glare manages to scare off all but the most persistent reporters, to whom Clarke gives the same few soundbites they've prepared the day before.

Clarke misses the end of Bellamy's hearing because she goes down to the parking lot to get Harper, who arrives from the airport in a police car. She accompanies the important witness up to the hearing room, ready to shield her from the reporters and to reassure her if the other woman gets cold feet. So far, however, Harper seems composed and determined to see things through.

They make it back upstairs just as the door opens and Bellamy and Wells come out. Clarke can practically feel her heart jump up in her throat, but she forces herself to keep walking calmly. Both men look composed and unreadable, not talking to the media right away as they have discussed beforehand. But from the way Bellamy seeks out her eyes, Clarke just knows things went well.

Clarke walks on down the corridor towards the hearing room, gently guiding Harper by the elbow. She's supposed stay here and wait for Harper to return from her hearing while Bellamy returns to the office with Miller and Octavia, but she only realizes the flaw in that plan now: After what must have been a harrowing hearing, Clarke wants to be by Bellamy's side, not sitting around in a stuffy corridor. Her impatience is ridiculous, she knows – he'll probably call her the moment they're safely in the car back to the apartment to give her a detailed recap. And she knows Bellamy will be fine without her. But he shouldn't have to be, not all the time.

Bellamy passes her in the middle of the corridor as they both continue in their opposite directions. They don't acknowledge each other with more than a look, not wanting to give anything away to the on-looking reporters, but when he walks by her, he reaches out his hand for a second, just enough so that his fingertips brush against the back of her hand.

Clarke manages to keep from breaking into a smile, but her heart feels lighter when she walks on, giving Harper's arm a last reassuring squeeze before Wells accompanies her inside the room. When she turns and looks down the corridor, she sees Bellamy giving her the tiniest smile before disappearing down the stairs.

***

 

As Clarke suspects, the others have already popped the champagne and fired up the singstar by the time her, Wells and Harper return form Harper's hearing. The strain of the last few days has exploded into raucous celebrations – Octavia and Raven are shouting the garbled lyrics of what might be a Beastie Boys song, Jasper and Wick are liberally covering the apartment with paper streamers and Nathan is teaching Monty a dance move that Clarke is pretty sure she saw in a Magic Mike trailer recently.

But despite the chaos, her eyes go immediately to Bellamy, who's sitting on the couch, watching the proceedings around him and sipping what looks like Scotch out of his champagne flute. He looks exhausted – there are dark rings under his eyes and his skin has a greyish tint to it – but very relieved, and when he looks up at her, Clarke quickly strides over to sit on the sofa next to him.

“How was it?”

“Draining.”

“I bet. But it went well?”

“They had a lot of questions, and I think some of them were very determined not to believe me. But yeah, by the end I think I convinced them.”

Clarke feels her lips curve into a smile, and despite her bone-crushing tiredness, she suddenly feels giddy.

“I knew you would.” She lays a hand on his arm, a gesture that is so innocent but, between them, right now, so very intimate. He puts his hand over hers and squeezes it in thanks.

His soft smile, the memories of last night and the heat of his knee against the side of her leg all work together to trigger the by now familiar flutter of desire within her again. Briefly, she imagines pulling him up by the hand and leading him to her room, shutting out the rest of their team, the rest of the world, and doing everything she's dreamed of doing to him lately. But she has a feeling that they'd just fall asleep the moment their backs hit the bed, and maybe that's exactly what they should do. So, instead of trying to work around his plan of going on a proper date before having sex again, Clarke pours herself a glass of champagne and clinks it against Bellamy's.

“You did good today, Bellamy.”

“I couldn't have done it without you.”

Clarke isn't so sure about that, but it does feel good to be appreciated. She makes a sound that could be interpreted as agreement and leans back into the sofa, her body snugly aligned with his, to simply enjoy the moment of their small victory.

***

 

After the hearing, things return to normal unsettlingly quickly. Once the hearing committee declares that they're done interviewing witnesses and will present a result of their investigation shortly, Lincoln comes by to tell them that the police no longer think they're in danger. The Detective seems unhappy with the decision, but police budget won't allow an extension of the intense protection now that their attacker's motive of keeping them silent has become void. Clarke can only hope he's right, because so far there's still no trace of John Murphy.

They briefly consider staying in the apartments, at least for a little while longer. But who knows how long it will take until the police catch Murphy, or if they ever will? From the looks on her team's faces, Clarke gathers that they'd all prefer their own homes over staying here for an indeterminate amount of time, and eventually Clarke and Bellamy cede and let them all pack their stuff and move back into their own apartments. Despite their eagerness to get their own personal space back, however, once the decision is made, everyone lingers around the apartment even after everything is packed, as if they wouldn't all see each other again two days later. No doubt the experience has created a bond between them, a sense of a common destiny that is equal parts comforting and overwhelming. Clarke spontaneously gives them all a day off to get settled in their homes again, and so all that needs to be done is to send out the pre-prepared statements to the press before they close the door of the apartment behind them and head home.

It is glorious to be back in her own place, Clarke thinks as she falls onto her bed and enjoys the quiet of her empty apartment, but it doesn't take long for a sense of loneliness to settle over her. Which is completely ridiculous, of course – for one thing, DC isn't that big, so none of her friends live more than a short car ride away. Hell, Raven lives within walking distance, and Wells literally just said goodbye after dropping her off here. Not to mention, she'll see Bellamy again this same evening when they finally have that date he was so insistent on.

As excited as Clarke is about finally getting to be alone with him for more than a few stolen moments, part of her is still resistant to the idea of forcing their relationship (well, potential relationship) into a conventional mold when really, the way they grew closer lately was unique and anything but conventional and Clarke is okay with that. She briefly considers simply opening the door in nothing but her underwear when he gets here and seeing if he's really that determined to make it to a restaurant, but eventually decides against it and goes to take a shower – but not without allowing herself to imagine the scenario for a moment.

Unfortunately, her daydreaming costs her a lot of time, and when the doorbell rings, Clarke is still wearing her bathrobe over her (very expensive, very lacy) underwear and has her wet hair wrapped in a towel. Bellamy raises his eyebrows in surprise when she opens the door and he sees her.

“I'm sorry, I'm running a little late.”

“Nervous?” There's that cocky smirk again, which Clarke can no longer in good conscience pretend to hate. Nonetheless, it still always makes her want to one-up him.

Pulling him close for a welcoming hug, Clarke leans up to let her lips ghost over his cheek and jaw before whispering throatily into his ear: “Excited!”

Bellamy's arms tighten around her waist, and the next thing she knows he's kissing her, hotly and eagerly. When they finally break apart for air, it's her turn to smirk and taunt him: “Greedy, are we?”

Instead of replying, he slides his hands down her back to cup her ass, squeezing almost roughly once before letting go and gently pushing her away.

“Go and put on some proper clothes, woman. I've had to move heaven and earth to get a table at that restaurant, we are not missing our reservation.”

She throws him a sultry look that says  _“Are you sure?”_ but complies, walking away with a little extra swing in her hips while he closes the door behind him and goes to sit on the couch, looking perfectly at ease as he inspects her living-room. It's not much to look at really: nondescript furniture, a half-empty book shelf, some paintings propped against the walls that she's been meaning to hang up for ages. She barely spends any time here anyway, so the only room that feels in any way lived in is her bedroom. Which she certainly intends to show him, and soon.

Smiling to herself, Clarke ducks into the bedroom before she can ponder the fact that Bellamy sitting on her couch makes the place look like an actual home for the first time since she moved in here.

She emerges ten minutes later in a soft pink dress and a white blazer, after applying light make-up and quickly blowdrying her hair. For once, she left it down except for a few strands that she twirled and tucked back with a small pin. She still remembers the way Bellamy tugged her hair free from its usual updo to bury his hands in her curls, that night at her office.

The pleasant flutter of excitement in her stomach turns into sharp, cold dread when she turns from the corridor into the living-room and takes in the scene before her.

She doesn't know when or how he got here, but there's a man standing in her living-room facing a panicked-looking Bellamy, and she doesn't need to see the intruder's face to know what he's here for – the gun he's pointing at Bellamy is enough to clue her in. Before she can think of anything to do – retreat, call the police, call Raven - a surprised gasp escapes her, and the man turns around.

As she suspected, Clarke is once more facing John Murphy, more easily recognizable as the man in Lincoln's photo now that he's standing in her well-lit living-room, but just as terrifying as he was when he tried to push her out of a window in her office. His eyes are cold as ever, but they're nothing compared to the smile he sends her way, a grimace more than anything else.

“Ah, Miss Griffin. Nice of you to join us. We were just talking about Bellamy's heroic deeds. Please, come closer.”

Instinct tells her to do the opposite, to run as far and as fast as she can. But that would mean leaving Bellamy alone with this crazed killer, and that is out of the question – they're in this together. Besides, there's something that could help her here, Clarke thinks vaguely, something she's not remembering right now. She takes a few slow, cautious steps forward, ignoring Bellamy's protest.

“Clarke, for fuck's sake, run!”

Murphy chuckles. “How chivalrous. You've certainly changed a lot, Senator Blake. Or is it too early to call you that? I'm not so sure you'll ever walk up the steps to the Senate, I'm afraid.”

Bellamy sends Clarke an angry glare, but she stays, obstinately continuing to walk towards Murphy's gun instead of away from it. When he realizes she won't stop, he focuses his attention on his old friend again, probably hoping to distract him, maybe talk him out of whatever he's planning.

“What are you even hoping to achieve with this? We've already gone public. The secret's out, Harper and I have testified. You can't stop what's coming.”

Bellamy's words don't really seem to have an effect, as Murphy continues to clutch his gun and fix Bellamy in place with his hateful stare. But at least he's still talking, not shooting.

“I was this close to stopping you, you know. I followed you around for days, and you had no idea. But then this bitch,” he gestures in Clarke's direction with the gun, “slipped through my fingers and you managed to shake me off and hide out somewhere, that was clever. But I figured, hey, third time's the charm, right? I wanted to get it done before the hearing, but I couldn't get close enough. But in a way, this is even more perfect – this way, I'll get you both. I might even make it look like  _you_ did it. A traumatized vet who snaps and kills his girlfriend... that'll cast some doubt on your story, don't you think?”

During Murphy's monologue, Clarke has started to slowly, very slowly inch forward. She finally remembers what it is that she was hoping to find in the living-room: if she only makes it to the side table by the door, she can get to her purse – and to the gun Raven tucked inside it after Murphy's last attempt to kill her.

The purse is almost within her reach when Murphy swivels and points the weapon at her, staring at her with such burning hatred that Clarke shivers.

“You and your friends have taken  _everything_ from me. Do you think I  _enjoyed_ doing what we did that night? I didn't, but I sucked it up because it was an order. And then I got over it and kept my mouth shut and lived my life. And it could have been a good life. We all could have had good lives, they made sure of that. But Bellamy just had to ruin it because you made him want to be a  _hero,_ after he's been a coward for seventeen years. You should have gone over that cliff with your father, then none of this would be happening.”

The mention of her father hits Clarke like a blow to the head, and she can only stare at the man as he continues to rave.

“Yes, that was me, alright? Jaha told our CO that Jake Griffin had started digging up some stuff about our colossal fuck-up, he told me, and I took care of it. I'm sorry you had to see that, by the way – you weren't supposed to be in the car. But your father was a ticking bomb, and time was of the essence.” He laughs humorlessly. “I guess it doesn't make much of a difference now.”

Clarke is still struggling to come to terms with the fact that she's standing before her father's murderer, but through the ringing in her ears she very faintly hears Bellamy's voice, rough and frantic:

“There's no need to drag Clarke into this, Murphy! Let her go, none of this is her fault.”

Murphy ignores him, still staring at Clarke, lifting his gun to aim at her head... and Bellamy lunges.

For a fraction of a second, it looks like he has a chance at bringing down her would-be killer. Murphy still seems focused entirely on Clarke, pinning her in place with an almost manic look. But then Bellamy bumps into the couch table, causing the empty fruit bowl on it to topple over with a clattering noise, and Murphy swivels back towards him. Frozen in terror, Clarke watches as he jerks the gun around, points it at Bellamy, and fires.

The gunshot at least brings her back to her senses. Clarke throws herself on her purse, fumbles out Raven's gun, and shoots. The bullet hits Murphy in the shoulder, causing him to drop his gun, but he roars in pain and rage and lurches towards her so she shoots again, this time hitting him in the thigh. Now he finally goes down, clutching at his leg. Clarke keeps her weapon trained on him long enough to kick away his gun and make sure that he's not a threat anymore before she's on her knees next to Bellamy's still body.

“Bellamy!” Clarke can hear the shrill panic in her voice as her hands scramble to find a pulse. The blooming red spot is a shocking contrast to his white dress shirt, reminding her of the blood that ran down her father's face after someone rammed their car and he smashed into the steering wheel. The colour has settled over her memories of him like a sticky membrane – it was the last time she ever saw Jake Griffin.

Red won't be the last thing she remembers of Bellamy.

Clarke locates the bullet hole and presses on it with one hand while she fumbles his phone out of his pocket with the other. Her hand is so slick with blood that she drops it twice before finally managing to call 911.

Dropping the phone once she's given the necessary information to the operator, Clarke focuses on Bellamy once more. He's still conscious, miraculously, his eyes blown wide with pain and shock, frantically flitting around in fear. She leans forward so he can see her better.

“I'm here, Bellamy, I've got you. I'm not going to let you die, you hear me? The ambulance is on its way, you'll get through this. You will get through this.”

His skin is losing colour by the second, but his eyes are fixed on hers now, still dark with pain but a little less panicked. Through the haze of tears running down her face, she holds his gaze until he passes out and his eyes slide shut.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha, I bet you all thought this chapter would be the happily ever after. (But just before you start yelling at me: there hasn't been a plot twist in ages, and I did foreshadow this one. I think.) I'm not even going to apologize for throwing yet more crazysauce onto this story, I know that's what you're all here for anyway.  
> Also, I borrowed one teeny tiny scene from a Scandal episode for this chapter because I liked it.


	24. Chapter 24

After Clarke has fired a gun and actually hit a person for the first time in her life, there's what feels like eternities of waiting: Waiting for the ambulance to get there. Waiting with icy fear to hear the telltale beep of a flatlined pulse on the way to the hospital. Waiting for the others to meet them there. Waiting for Bellamy to come out of surgery.

Octavia is the first one to arrive at the hospital, running up to her with tears streaming down her face. She goes from hysterically interrogating Clarke to even more hysterically thanking her when she tells her about shooting Murphy.

The others trickle in too, at least the ones she could reach. Apart from Octavia, that's only Wells and Jasper, with Miller and Monty not answering their phones and Raven and Wick still on the way after taking longer to reach because they were at the cinema. It also doesn't take long for the first reporter to show up, an infamous investigative journalist named Anya with whom Clarke has long nurtured a sort of friendly enmity. The woman is ferocious when she's hounding a story, and has a knack of showing up at police stations, hospitals and even the private residences of every big name in the city long before anyone else if there's so much as a whiff of scandal. Clarke has warned many a client to be wary of her, and there's a pre-written cease and desist letter that gets sent out to Anya's editorial office in regular intervals, but Clarke respects the reporter nonetheless. She's tough but fair, and she never airs a feature unless she's sure it's true and well-sourced.

Wells is about to call for hospital security to have her removed when it occurs to Clarke that for once, working together with the woman might pay off.

“Wait.” Every head swivels from Anya towards her. “I'll give you an interview. Exclusive.”

“You can't be serious!” Octavia explodes. “My brother is fighting for his life, and you...”

“I'm fighting for his cause.” Because Bellamy has been shot for making sure the truth comes out, and she will make sure that if he dies tonight, it won't have been for nothing. And while the thought of giving an interview while Bellamy is barely holding on to life makes her want to scream and rage, the spin doctor inside her knows that it will be just the thing that will get them public credence and put pressure on the hearing committee to find the culprit behind all this violence. After this, there's no way they'll be able to keep hushing this up. What did she tell her mother? If you kill a hero, you turn him into a martyr. If Bellamy dies, Clarke will make sure he dies a martyr.

She nonetheless hates herself a little bit when she looks at Anya and asks: “You got your team with you?”

Anya nods. “They're outside in the car. Get us an empty room or a quiet corner, we can start in five minutes.”

Ignoring Octavia's protest, Clarke sends Wells to ask for an empty room they can occupy and is eventually led to a consultation room two floors up. She hates walking away from Bellamy and not knowing if he'll still be breathing when she returns, but she reminds herself how much this means to him, remembers the way he looked the night he told her about what happened, how the weight of a hundred deaths seemed to rest on his shoulders alone.

Forgoing make-up and a suggested change of clothes, Clarke sits down across from Anya at a small table, its surface shockingly clean and white against the dried bloodstains on her hands. Anya's team sets up the camera in record-speed, Wells squeezes her shoulder once more, and then the camera's red light is blinking and Anya starts to speak.

“I am currently at George Washington University Hospital with Clarke Griffin, consultant to Bellamy Blake, who has told me that the senatorial candidate has just become the victim of an assassination attempt. Blake, who has recently blown the whistle on a massacre of civilians carried out by our armed forces seventeen years ago, is in critical condition. Miss Griffin, can you tell us more about what's going on?”

Clarke can. She tells the public everything they didn't know yet about the cover-up they have unearthed – the toll it took on Bellamy and how deeply he wanted to atone for the crime he allowed to happen, his fear for their lives as they went into hiding. She talks in stomach-churning detail about Murphy's deranged fury, his bullet in Bellamy's chest and the shots she fired in retaliation and self-defense.

As a political consultant, Clarke knows she does a good job. She provides the public with the kind of powerful images you just don't get at a press conference, her words brimming with raw grief and shock. With her bloodstained clothes and pale face, she is victim, witness and accuser at the same time.

She breaks down in tears halfway through the interview but struggles on. She may hate every second of this but she knows what it will do for their cause, for Bellamy's popularity.

If he survives.

When Anya finally wraps up the interview and rushes off with her team, Clarke vomits into a garbage bin until there's nothing left but bile, Wells' arms keeping her from collapsing as she tries to breathe through tears and snot and vomit.

***

 

Octavia isn't quite sure what she thinks of the fact that Clarke is giving an interview while her brother is still on the operating table, but she doesn't have the energy to fight her on this. The only thing that matters right now as far as she's concerned is that Bellamy makes it out of there in one piece. So she stays rooted to her spot just outside the door leading to the operating rooms, blocked by a “restricted” sign and the severe gaze of the nurse sitting behind a counter across the hall. Wells has gone with Clarke to make sure the interview goes over smoothly, and Jasper, who was supposed to wait with her here, has gone to get them some coffee. It's his attempt to help her, she's sure, but right now, Octavia would rather have someone by her side to tell her things will be fine.

And then, for once, the universe provides her with exactly what she needs as Lincoln comes out of the lift and heads straight for her.

“Octavia! I just heard what happened... I'm so sorry. Is he...? How's your brother doing?”

"They're operating on him right now, so I haven't heard anything."

Octavia's throat hurts with suppressed sobs and shakes her head angrily, trying to will away the tears that spring to her eyes again. She hopes he meant his "I'm sorry" as a general expression of sympathy, not to imply that he feels responsible for what happened to her brother. It wasn't his fault that his boss decided to pull their security detail, but she does not have the strength to reassure him of this right now, and she doesn't trust herself not to lash out at the next best person if given the opportunity.

Thankfully, Lincoln shows no signs of trying to establish himself as a guilty party in this whole mess.

“How are you holding up?”

His voice is soft, his eyes worried and gentle, and damn if she doesn't start crying again just because of that.

“Not great.” And then, because she's alone and scared, she asks: “Could you be unprofessional just this once? I could use a hug.”

Lincoln doesn't even hesitate to pull her into his arms, and he stays there with her, holding her tight long after the others get there and anchoring her as her life threatens to fall apart around her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short, but it's the most I could manage, and I wanted to stay in the story and keep updating because we're so close to the end! (Which is hard to imagine, tbh.) Anyway, have some more drama and Clarke being a scary master manipulator.


	25. Chapter 25

Clarke spends two nights at the hospital after Bellamy is shot, first waiting in the hallway before the operating rooms until he is wheeled out on a hospital bed, and then waiting by his bedside for some sign that he'll make it through this. When he's first wheeled into a private room, no one but Octavia is allowed in, and Clarke resigns herself to more waiting in the corridor, whose walls seem to slowly and threateningly close in on her. But then the nurse emerges and tells her and Nathan that Octavia asked for them, and Clarke feels a weight lift off her chest that has been weighing on her from the moment she first saw Octavia storm up to her at the hospital. After she returned from giving her interview with Anya, Clarke has barely been able to look at Octavia, who looks as if her world is ending and probably feels like it too. Octavia might lose the most important person in the world to her, and Clarke feels like it would be her fault as much as Murphy's.

Luckily, Octavia doesn't seem to think so – not only does she allow Clarke to wait with her, but she accepts it when Clarke takes her hand and squeezes it comfortingly. They remain like this, huddled together on chairs by Bellamy's bedside, Nathan and Clarke flanking Octavia in a silent show of support that Clarke can only hope helps at least a little bit. The hospital falls silent around them in that darkest, loneliest hour just before dawn. But she isn't alone, Clarke thinks and tightens her grip on Octavia's hand, and as unsettling as the silence may be, there is one sound that persists and that she holds on to like a lifeline: the beeping of Bellamy's heart monitor, slow but steady. Gradually, Clarke lets the sound lull her to sleep while the sun rises outside the window.

***

 

Bellamy doesn't wake up the entire time Clarke, Octavia and Nathan are waiting by his side, but his heartbeat does slowly but surely get stronger until he is taken off the ventilator to breathe by himself. Eventually, the doctors tell them that Bellamy has stabilized and they're optimistic that he'll make a full recovery, but by this point, after watching morning dawn outside the window to Bellamy's room a second time, Clarke is too numb to feel anything upon hearing the good news. Wells eventually convinces her to leave the hospital, at least long enough to shower and sleep for a while in an actual bed, and Clarke lets him drive her to his place. Her apartment is cordoned off as a crime scene, but Clarke has no desire to set foot in there anyway, not while Bellamy's blood is still staining her living-room carpet.

Raven brings her the spare set of clothes she keeps at the office, helps her out of her bloody dress and dumps it straight into the trash, and when she steps out of the shower and puts on a comfortable pair of dark dress pants and a crisp blue shirt, Clarke slowly starts to feel like herself again. Her black pantsuit and high-heeled pumps are her armour, and with it on, she can and will return to battle. After two days of sitting by a hospital bed, condemned to wait helplessly, Clarke is itching to actually _do_ something, and so she heads straight back to the office and buries herself in work once more, of which there is more than enough: After her interview the night of the shooting, Wells and Jasper have had their hands full handling press requests, and Clarke feels that she can no longer in good conscience leave them alone with it. Not to mention, after her foray into the spotlight the media are now asking to speak to her too, and Clarke has had to decide how much of a public presence she wants to be in this case. In the end, she puts aside her dislike for public attention and gives a few follow-up interviews – clearly, she is now the person speaking on Bellamy's behalf, and as long as the media's attention is on them, she 's going to use it to make sure Thelonious Jaha and whoever else was behind this are brought to justice.

In short, Clarke doesn't really have time to visit Bellamy at the hospital, but she also doesn't try very hard to make time. In fact, she deliberately puts it off as long as possible, and when she does return, five days after the shooting, she chooses a time when no one else is there and even Octavia has gone home for a few hours. After camping out at the hospital since Bellamy got shot, Octavia only budged from his bedside after he woke up a few times and even managed to speak to her the night before.

The only one with Clarke today is Raven, who wordlessly waits outside the room for her. Clarke doesn't know whether she should be thankful for her friend's display of discretion or ask her to stay by her side. She will never forget those first terrible hours during and after the operation, the waiting, the uncertainty, the dreadful fear every time one of Bellamy's doctors approached them, potentially bearing unimaginable news. And even after she was allowed into Bellamy's room, there was nothing Clarke could do except to sit by his bed and listen to his heart monitor, willing his pulse to get stronger. Clarke has never felt more helpless, and there's nothing she hates more than feeling helpless.

But those dreadful memories are not the only thing that kept her from returning to the hospital. For the past few days, Clarke has tortured herself by remembering the way she talked to her mother about heros and martyrs and wondering if, somehow, she caused all this. She was the one who pushed Bellamy to go public, to stir up dust and get his old teammates on board. She was the one who told her mother all about what they were planning, and bragged about how they were not going to back down. She gambled with Bellamy's life in order to avenge her father's death, and now that she has finally found her father's killer, she wonders what she would have felt if Bellamy had actually died over it – would she have found it worth the risk?

Clarke tries to push aside those thoughts and pulls up a chair next to his bed, her shaky, uncertain grip causing the chair legs to scrape loudly across the floor. She freezes mid-movement but the damage is done: Bellamy starts stirring, and it doesn't take long until he opens his eyes. Even though Octavia has reported that he's been awake before and the doctors have assured her that he's perfectly fine and just needs a lot of rest, Clarke is still ready to hit the alarm button by the side of the bed at any sign of trouble, her eyes darting back and forth between Bellamy and the monitor displaying his vital signs.

Then he turns his head a little, his eyes fall on her, and his disoriented expression clears up.

“Hey Princess.” His voice is husky from sleep, but there's no mistaking the gentleness in it – a gentleness Clarke isn't sure she actually deserves. With shaking hands, she gets the glass of water from the nightstand and helps him drink a few sips, glad to have an excuse to put off talking for a little longer. After setting aside the glass, she wrings her hands nervously in her lap until Bellamy lays his hand on top of them, stilling her fidgeting. His hand feels slack and heavy, and she's pretty sure the small gesture costs him a lot of energy.

“I hear you shot the bastard. Saved my life.”

Clarke can only nod through the sudden tightness in her throat.

“Well done.” He squeezes her hand weakly, and suddenly Clarke can't breathe, can't move as it finally sinks in how close she was to losing him just a few nights ago.

Her vibrating phone shocks her out of her paralysis, and Clarke lets go of his hand to fumble it out of her jacket. She can't even read the name of the caller, but it's just the excuse she needs to get out of here. Holding up her phone to indicate that she has to take this, she flings herself out the door and into a restroom two doors down.

Rejecting the call without checking who it was, Clarke sits down on the toilet lid. But this time, her tried and tested calming methods fail her: There's no air getting to her lungs no matter how often she counts her breaths, no helpful thought of other things that need doing – there's only the image of Bellamy with a bullet in his chest.

And then there's Raven, pulling her close and pressing on her back with strong hands.

“Shh, Clarke. It's alright. You're safe, okay? You're both safe.”

With Raven's hand on her back, Clarke breathes into the paper bag her friend hands her and manages to calm down enough to speak.

“Why are you here? Did something happen? Is Bellamy alright?” Panic is already rising within her again, and she's getting ready to jump up and face whatever else this nightmare holds, but Raven holds her down.

“He's fine, Clarke, just a bit confused. I'm more worried about you right now – you looked like you were having a mental breakdown. To be honest, it makes you look a little constipated.”

Clarke has to laugh through her tears, resulting in a rather unelegant grunt. “So you followed me to the bathroom?! What if I really was constipated?”

Raven shrugs. “That would've been awkward, I guess.”

“Thank you anyway. I guess I needed someone with me right now.”

Perching next to her on the toiled lid, Raven puts an arm around Clarke's shoulder. “You'll always have me, and Wells, and Monty and Jasper, and I'm pretty sure Bellamy would take a bullet for you.”

Clarke gives her friend a horrified look.

“Too soon?”

“Yes!”

“Still true.”

“Still inappropriate.”

Raven chuckles. “So I take it you don't hate him anymore.”

Clarke sighs. “Was I that obvious in the beginning? I tried so hard to be polite.”

“Clarke, honey, you are many things, but polite is not one of them.”

Despite herself, Clarke has to laugh. “Well, it didn't seem to bother him. And now... he was actually picking me up to go on a date when Murphy shot him. A real date.” Clarke looks at her friend, tears rising to her eyes once more. “We were going to try and do things properly.”

“Oh Clarke...” Raven pulls her closer, rubbing her shoulders. “You will get to do that. He'll be completely fine in no time and then you can have your romantic date and all the hot sex you've been working up to and it will be amazing.”

“Actually...”

Raven raises her eyebrows questioningly. “Actually what?”

“We kind of already had sex. Just a little bit.” That manages to shock even her unflappable friend.

“How do you have _a little bit_ of sex?”

“It was after the shooting, in my office...” Raven gasps but refrains from commenting. “We were both in shock and upset and.... I don't know, I guess I wanted to celebrate being alive or something like that.”

“That's as good a reason as any, I guess.” Raven grins wickedly. “So?”

“It was pretty good.” Clarke doesn't know why she tries to downplay it when she herself still regularly indulges in the memory, but Raven doesn't let her get away with it anyway.

“I've felt tingly just watching the two of you accidentally brush hands and you're telling me it was _pretty good_?”

“Alright, it was amazing! I mean, it was all a bit blurry so I figured it might have been a fluke, but we kissed again the day before the hearing and that was pretty amazing too. I was ready to kick you out of our room and have my way with him, hearing be damned.”

And now her friend looks positively scandalised. “Clarke Griffin, are you saying you would have neglected your professional duties f _or a man_?” She grins. “Damn, that must have been some sex.”

Clarke elbows her jokingly and laughs, suddenly feeling much more lighthearted than before. It is beyond absurd to be sitting in a bathroom like two schoolgirls, gossiping about boys, but it's still better than the reality of the hospital around them. And maybe she _was_ overreacting – Bellamy's doctors did seem very confident that he'd make a quick recovery. Maybe this nightmare really will be over soon. Maybe, for once, she can allow herself a few silly little dreams about a man she didn't even know six months ago but whom she can't imagine not having in her life now.

“Do you think you're ready to go back yet? Bellamy looked a little disappointed when I checked in on him. I think he was hoping for a slightly longer visit.”

Clarke makes a face, now embarrasssed by her hysterical flight – Bellamy probably was rather confused. But she gets up from the toilet seat without protest, wincing when she spots her reflection in the mirror, a blotchy, red-eyed mess. In a (largely futile) attempt to look at least a little bit more put-together, she wipes at the tearstreaks on her cheeks and dabs some cold water under her eyes before exiting the bathroom.

She needn't have worried: By the time they get back to his room, Bellamy is fast asleep again, and Clarke considers returning to the office. But Raven gently pushes her down onto the chair next to the bed, a silent order to stay put and stop running away. Clarke relents, but not before taking a peek at his chart to see his progress written in black on white, in the medical language she still understands. The systematic certainty of checking off vital signs one by one is a comforting ritual, but it is nothing compared to taking his hand in hers, carefully so as not to wake him again, and actually staying and observing him, trusting her own eyes and ears and hands as proof that he's still alive no matter how badly someone wanted him dead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Clarke is getting uncharacteristically sappy... Bellamy really messed her up, I guess. I hope she isn't too prone to freaking out in this story - I know I've had similar scenes before, but let's be honest, with all the shit that keeps happening to her, if I was Clarke, I'd just be one walking panic attack. Also, Raven totally handed her one of those little paper sanitary bags to breathe into, because Raven knows how to improvise.  
> I tried doing some research into Bellamy's medical situation, but it's still deliberately vague and most likely inaccurate, so please just roll with it?


	26. Chapter 26

Bellamy has now survived not one but two attempts on his life, the second of which nearly managed to finish him off for good. That Murphy's bullet missed all his vital organs is practically a miracle, and he should be over the moon and more than a little grateful that he's still alive.

Instead, Bellamy is grumpy and annoyed. As much as his doctors tell him that his wound is healing nicely, it's also healing very slowly, and Bellamy has been told that he's looking at at least another week in the hospital, followed by several more weeks of recovery at home – all while his career is at a crucial point and the crime he has been working to uncover for months is finally being investigated. In short, Bellamy wants to get out, to do something like Nate and Clarke and the team are. Instead, he's lying in a hospital bed, bored out of his skull, trying to ignore the pain in his chest that not even large doses of pain meds can fully subdue.

And then there's the matter of Clarke... Clarke, who is at the center of all this, who has increasingly been at the center of his thoughts lately. Who is the reason why he jumped at an armed, deranged killer without a second thought. Who saved his life but has only been here once since he woke up. The last thing he remembers before the bullet hit him is Clarke, bravely defying Murphy even as he held a gun to her head, terrified and strong and hauntingly beautiful. When he woke up again to find her by his bedside, he was hoping to make some new memories of her, memories that don't involve tears and blood and abject terror. Instead, she practically ran from his room, and he doesn't know what it means.

He has spent the days since that visit mulling it over in his head, to no avail, and he hasn't gotten any further when Octavia stops by for one of her frequent visits. His sister apparently did not budge from his side for the first few days after the shooting, and still drops in several times a day. Usually, Bellamy welcomes the distraction, but today, he's not really in a talkative mood, torn between being annoyed that Clarke doesn't visit more often and being annoyed at being annoyed at all.

And he should be much less unhappy, especially since Octavia brought him his iPad after he has not been allowed to use any electronic devices that would allow him to get at least a little bit of work done. But when Octavia asks him how he's feeling, instead of telling her that he feels exactly the same way he did during her last visit this morning, he blurts out:

“Clarke hasn't been in since I woke up.”

Octavia looks surprised.

“You know there's a media tornado going on out there since you got shot, right? Everyone's talking about it. Clarke is speaking to the press, keeping them off your back, dealing with all your new campaign donors, rescheduling your speaking engagements...”

“Miller and Wells can handle those things.”

“Are you telling me that you expect the biggest workaholic in DC to sit by your bedside and hold your hand?”

“I'd just like to know that she cares I'm alive.” By now, Bellamy is well aware that he's sounding like a whiny little boy. But if lying in the hospital with a bullet wound in one's chest isn't a good enough excuse to be a little whiny, what is?

“She shot a guy for you.”

“Because she needs me to stay alive in case there's a follow-up hearing.” He's not really convinced that that's true, but he's still too terrified that it might be to dismiss the thought entirely.

For a moment, Octavia just looks at him incredulously. Then she grabs his iPad off the side table, unlocks it and starts pulling something up.

“Hey, this is password-protected.”

“Your passwords are terrible. They're always variations of our names and birthdays and our one and only pet.”

“Cerberus?” Bellamy laughs wistfully. “God, I almost forgot about him.”

“And yet you _still_ use him as your safety question.”

“You are incorrigible.” He watches as she taps and swipes around on the screen. “What are you even doing?”

Instead of replying, Octavia sets the iPad down on the bed before him.

“Stop sulking and watch.”

And he watches. The youtube-Clip Octavia starts with a tap, uploaded a little over a week ago by a big news channel, shows Clarke sitting in a room in this very hospital, judging by the colour scheme. Her skin is so pale she matches the wall behind her, only offset by the dark circles under her eyes and the bloodstains on her light clothes. Bellamy doesn't need to look at the date of the upload to know when the interview was recorded: It was the night Murphy shot him.

He doesn't know what he expects when he hits play, but it's not the tremor in Clarke's voice, or the passion with which she talks about his fight to right the wrong he has helped other people commit, or the raw grief on her face.

When she breaks down in tears two minutes into the video, he is tempted to click the pause button just to stop seeing her in so much pain.

He's glad he doesn't. Because of course Clarke Griffin, even after being assaulted and threatened in her own home and swapping what should have been a lovely date for a night at at the hospital, does not give up. When the reporter asks her if she wants to stop, or at least take a break, Clarke shakes her head. She resolutely wipes her eyes with a tissue, takes a deep breath, and looks at the camera again.

“ _Bellamy Blake is fighting for his life because he was trying to tell the world about a terrible crime that he feels he allowed to happen. He wanted to protect the public from being the victims or the unwilling perpetrators of such crimes again. And so I implore the people responsible for this: Own up to your sins. Try and make things right. Because if you don't and he doesn't make it out of that operating room, a good man will have died for nothing tonight, and his death will be on your conscience.”_

When the video cuts off shortly after that, Bellamy is stunned into complete silence. He's received a lot of glowing praise lately, thanks to Clarke's excellent reputation-saving, but nothing has touched him as deeply as Clarke calling him a good man with a conviction that could move mountains. No one except for his sister has ever believed in him like that – in fact, for a long time in his life, most people he knew believed he wouldn't amount to much at all.

“So, apparently, Clarke thinks you're a good man. Personally, I don't see it...”

Bellamy whacks his sister on the arm without any real force and laughs shakily. “Brat.”

Octavia flashes him a grin before turning serious again. “Clarke really cares about you.”

He sighs, because he wants to believe it, he really does, but something inside of him still feels like being with Clarke is just one of those things that are not meant for him. “Clarke has been through three assassination attempts because of me. I wouldn't be surprised if she just wants to get far away from me.”

Rationally, he knows that's unlikely – Clarke was ready to give him a shot, after all, and Clarke may be a lot of things, but she's not someone who turns back once she's made a decision. She's unlike anyone he's ever met before, she makes him stand in awe of her strength and intelligence and burn with the desire to be a better, worthier man, to keep her safe and happy. And yet, he's only known her for a few months, and half their interactions, especially the ones that brought them physically close, were driven by adrenaline – not exactly the best basis for a relationship. Sure, they were on the way to finding out if they could be something more. But that was before – before his old army buddy held a gun to her head and revealed that he had killed her father, had tried to kill her too and would try again. Before she was forced to shoot a man to save Bellamy's life. What if the mere sight of him will always remind her of that horrible night? She certainly hightailed out of his room fast the last time she was here. Maybe she can't wait to put an end to this chapter of her life and go on without him.

His sister's sympathetic smile tells Bellamy all about just how pathetic he must sound. God, he has it bad for his consultant, especially considering how she drove him crazy during their first few weeks of working together. Well, she still drives him crazy now, but in a very, very different way... He quickly forces himself to shut down that train of thought and concentrate on what Octavia is saying.

“There won't be another attempt on your life. Lincoln says Murphy has admitted to working alone, he did not get direct orders to kill you and Clarke from anyone. He'll be locked away and you'll be safe.”

That's something, at least, and Bellamy's mood lightens up enough to tease his baby sister about her crush on the Detective.

“Been speaking to Lincoln a lot, have you?”

To Bellamy's unending satisfaction, his tough little sister _blushes_.

“He's been keeping us updated on the investigation and on Murphy's confession.”

“How nice of him.”

“Yes, isn't it?” Octavia is still trying to look like she has no idea what he's getting at.

“Selfless, too. He must be very dedicated to his work, to pay so much attention to a case.”

Octavia, realizing that the game is up, changes tactics. “That, and I firmly intend for him to be my next boyfriend. He's already easing into it.”

“Boyfriend, hm? That's a big word for someone who doesn't spend more than a few weeks a year in her own apartment.”

Octavia shrugs. “We'll make it work.”

“You have asked the guy about this before you started making plans though, right?”

“I told him we'd go on a date as soon as your case is closed and he no longer needs to keep a professional distance. He understands the concept of a working relationship, unlike some people.”

She gives him a not-at-all-subtle look, and Bellamy laughs, something he regrets immediately because it makes pain shoot through his chest.

“I'm glad to hear that at least you will be provided for if I don't make it out of this place.”

Octavia cuffs him on the arm, affectionately but much more softly than she usually would. “A), I've been doing a pretty good job of providing for myself for years now, thank you very much. And B)”, her face turns suddenly and unexpectedly serious, “don't ever joke about that. And don't you dare get yourself shot again, alright? You're the most important person in my life, you idiot.”

And then for the first time in a very long time, Bellamy watches his little sister actually tear up. Since he woke up, she's been all smiles and excited chatter and affectionate fussing, but now he sees a glimpse of how terrified she must have been to lose him.

“I won't, okay? Come here.” Octavia doesn't hesitate to jump into his arms, hugging him carefully but still tightly enough to cause a flash of pain to radiate out from the wound. He ignores it and allows Octavia to close her arms around his neck like a vise, freakishly strong like she has been even when she was still a little girl. “I'm sorry I scared you.”

“You should be.” Octavia's voice, though muffled because her head is buried in his shoulder, sounds shaky and he's starting to feel guilty all over again, but when she pulls away, his little sister is smiling once more, even though it's a little more timid than usually and her eyes are still shining wetly.

“You really should take a shower though, you're getting a little rank and you look like shit. I'm not sure your personality alone will be enough to win Clarke over.”

“I'm pretty sure Clarke isn't the type of woman who can be won over by looks.”

Octavia snickers. “Oh, trust me, I've seen her checking you out.” Bellamy grins, but of course his sister isn't done teasing him yet. “Not that you're any more subtle yourself. The amount of blatant ogling between you two at the apartment...” Octavia gives an exaggerated display of revulsion, shuddering and gagging.

Bellamy retaliates her teasing by shoving her with as much force as he can muster, feeling smugly satisfied when she almost tumbles off the bed. “Don't you have a Detective to stalk or something?”

Octavia pokes out her tongue but actually does get up after a look at her watch. “I don't, but I do have a train to catch. My boss wants to know when and how I'll continue my research, and an education advocacy group wants to talk to me about becoming a spokesperson, so I gotta run now.”

Bellamy smiles, relieved to see his sister already back to her usual energetic self. She's taken to the whole political thing like a fish to water, using her new public popularity to bring attention to causes she supports. He's happy about it, but he hopes her own career won't take a backseat to it. Then again, if he knows his sister, she'll handle both with ease, driven by the thirst for success and abhorrence of injustice that an isolated and underprivileged childhood have bred within her.

Octavia leans down to give him a kiss on the cheek before picking up her ratty backpack.

“I'll be back in two days. No dying.”

“I'll do my best.”

Bellamy smiles and leans back into his pillows, only noticing now how draining the visit has been on his still feeble strength. The door has barely closed behind Octavia when his eyes are already drifting shut.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there's no Bellarke interaction in this one, but I felt it was very necessary to have some Blake sibling quality time first.


	27. Chapter 27

Clarke is nervous and, consequently, annoyed. She can deal with stress and fear and grief and anger, in her own time, but she absolutely _hates_ being nervous. And yet here she is, standing before Bellamy's private hospital room and having to give herself a pep talk just to knock. She hadn't even planned on coming in today; alone – not after what happened the last time she was here. But since she left town Octavia has left her several increasingly pushy voice messages about visiting Bellamy, and Clarke is afraid to ignore her order any longer. With Octavia, there's no knowing what she'll do if she thinks anyone is treating her brother badly, and since she's coming back today, Clarke figures she'd better get over herself fast.

So Clarke takes a deep breath and steels herself before knocking on the door to Bellamy's room, but the second she hears his voice tell her to come in, all attempts at being calm go out the window. A mix of emotions floods her when she steps into the room and sees him – the ever present guilt and recurring memories of gunshots and blood; relief at the fact that he looks much better today in a blue pyjama instead of the horrid pea-green hospital gown, his hair gleaming freshly-washed and finally some colour in his cheeks again. But all of those emotions pale in comparison to that other one, a feeling so powerful she knows she'll have to stop labelling it 'begrudging respect' soon, because who exactly is she kidding here?

And all of that is before he even smiles.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Clarke wonders if it's a stab at her last, entirely too short visit, and feels compelled to explain herself. But what would she even say? _“I saw you, remembered how you almost died, and freaked out?”_

She tries small talk instead. “How are you doing today?”

“Much better. I've finally bullied the nurses into helping me get up and take a shower. I feel like a completely new person.”

“I'm glad to hear that.”

“How are you doing?” He looks her up and down, and Clarke just knows he can see how tired she is because he's so damn perceptive. She's taken great care to appear well-rested and composed, putting on a bright pink cashmere sweater that flatters her complexion and covering the deep circles under her eyes with a thick layer of concealer, but the truth is she jerks awake every night from nightmares that make her terrified to go back to sleep, and it's starting to show.

“We're mostly waiting for the police to finish interrogating Murphy. For now, it looks like he was working alone, so it's unclear how his attacks are going to influence the hearings on the cover-up. For now, there's not much we can do. We'll have a press conference when you're discharged from the hospital, but that's it for now.”

“That's great, but it's not actually what I was asking. How are you holding up?”

“I'm not the one who was shot.”

“No, but you had to shoot someone, or you would have been.”

Clarke flinches. Shooting Murphy was nothing short of instinct, and in the moment itself, she was much too focused on the fact that Bellamy was bleeding out on the floor to take note of the heavy weight of the gun in her hand, the loud bang, the sickening sight of a bullet burying itself in a human body, Murphy's pained groans as he laid waiting for the ambulance. She has since had ample opportunity to replay the memory.

“It had to be done.” Bellamy manages to find the exact same words she tells herself at night, but somehow, hearing them from him, _seeing_ him, she finds it a little easier to believe them. She wonders what else she would have done to protect him, and shivers when her mind supplies the answer: _Everything_.

Clarke nods, suddenly too choked up to speak. She busies herself with taking off her coat and pushing a chair to the bedside to sit down instead, hoping he'll change the topic. He does, but not in a direction she expected.

“I saw the interview you gave to Anya, that night at the hospital.”

“You did?” Clarke isn't sure how to feel about that. 

“You were great. I'm pretty sure everyone who saw that interview was on our side the moment you broke down in tears.”

It sounds like a compliment, but she doesn't like the way he phrased it, or the way he refuses to meet her eyes. He seems uncharacteristically nervous, fiddling with his blanket and looking at everything but her, and then Clarke suddenly understands what is happening: He doesn't blame her for being shot, as she had feared – he's afraid she'll leave him, for whatever reason.

The idea that he thinks she ever could makes her next words come out sharper than intended.

“I didn't plan that, if that's what you're thinking.”

When she gave that interview, all she could think of was that she wanted to put as much pressure as possible on the people behind Murphy and his gun, to make them pay for what they did to Bellamy and her Dad. It only occurs to her now that Bellamy may have misconstrued her renewed vigour in dealing with the press as an attempt to push their case so that they can part ways faster, when nothing could be further from the truth.

His eyes shoot up to hers, guardedly hopeful, and she holds his gaze, desperate to make him believe her next words.

“Giving that interview while things were still unfolding, with your blood on my clothes – that was a calculated move. I know how to give the cameras some powerful images. But the tears were _real_. All I could think about during the entire interview was that you could die any second. And I...”

She breaks off as her throat closes up with yet more tears, and she shakes her head irritatedly. Will the damn crying never stop?

“I couldn't stand the thought.” Now it is Clarke who averts her eyes. She's not used to being so vulnerable, not even around Bellamy, who's seen her at her weakest over the past weeks.

When he takes her hand, she flinches in surprise but doesn't pull back.

“Are you saying...” his voice is earnest, but his lips are twitching mischievously, “you don't think I'm a smarmy ass anymore?”

Once again, he manages to make her universe tilt back onto its axis just by making her laugh.

And as she looks at him now, a hint of a smile curling his lips that she can already imagine brightening until it blinds her, Clarke suddenly knows that, whatever bad things they may have brought into each other's lives, they are far outweighed by the good ones. They're simply better together, and she can only hope he agrees with her on that.

“Oh, I still think you can be a bit of an ass. But, you know, in a good way.”

He grins. “I guess that's good enough for now.”

Silence falls until Clarke starts to feel a little stupid, holding his hand and grinning like an idiot. Thankfully, Bellamy start speaking again, his voice carefully casual.

“Too bad we never got around to having our date.” It's his way of asking about _them_ , and while she thinks it may be a little premature to worry about that while he's still in the hospital, she also does agree that it is a very important question, and it's about time he gets a clear answer.

“We'll do that as soon as you're out of here.”

And just to make sure he knows how serious she is about that, she leans forward and presses a soft kiss to his lips, careful not to jostle him in case he's still in pain. She fully intends to leave it at that, but when she tries to pull back, his hand comes up to the back of her head, gently holding her in place as he leans his forehead against hers.

“I'm not letting you go, Princess. Who knows how long I have until someone tries to shoot me again?”

Clarke laughs, even though she really thinks people need to stop making jokes about this, at least until Bellamy is out of the hospital. But she'll take everything that makes him smile right now, no matter how inappropriate. And since he is still recovering and should therefore get to do whatever makes him feel better, she kisses him again, softly and languidly, because for once, they've got all the time in the world.

 - or so she thinks. Because what feels like less than a minute later, there's a short rap on the door, and Clarke barely has time to sit up straight before it opens and a woman in an elegant tan sheath dress and matching trenchcoat strides in – Clarke's mother.

Before she knows what she's doing, Clarke has jumped up and positioned herself between her mother and the bed as if to shield Bellamy from the intruder.

Abby Griffin just raises an eyebrow. “I didn't come here to attack him, if that's what you're afraid of.”

Clarke feels a little silly but does not move an inch. “Why _are_ you here then?”

“How did you even get in?” That's Bellamy from behind her, and Clarke has to admit it's a valid question – the nurses are instructed not to let anyone into this room who isn't either related to or working for Bellamy. They left a list with the names of everyone on the team at the nurses' station, but then again Clarke knows things can get busy at a hospital.

“I told them my name and they assumed I was with the Blake-Griffin party.”

And now Clarke blushes, because “Blake-Griffin” makes it sound so much like... Well, like they're a lot closer than they actually are. Thankfully, her mother moves straight on to Clarke's question.

“I've come to deliver a message from Thelonious. He wants you to know that he'll take full responsibility for the botched mission and the cover-up. He'll be talking to the press about it in” Abby lifts one slender arm to look at her wrist watch, “fifteen minutes, so I suggest you turn on the TV. He just didn't want you to find out when the press inquiries start rolling in.”

“How noble of him,” Clarke sneers, before something else occurs to her. “What about Dad? Who's taking responsibility for that? What about Bellamy getting shot?”

“Thelonious says he had nothing to do with Jake's death. As for the attack on Mister Blake, it seems that Murphy has already admitted to working alone. It seems likely that he orchestrated the accident that killed your father as well.”

Clarke shivers. Murphy admitted as much before he shot Bellamy, but he also mentioned Thelonious Jaha and his CO, and she wonders if they'll be held responsible for letting Murphy loose on her Dad. Seeing her expression, Abby takes a step towards her but stops when Clarke backs away, only stopping when the backs of her knees hit the bed.

“Clarke, I know what you're thinking, but Thelonious and I did not kill Jake. You have to believe me, I never wanted any of this to happen. I loved your father, Clarke.”

“I don't know what to believe anymore.” It's true, and it hurts, and suddenly Clarke does not want to hear another word from her mother. She's confused and angry and most of all, she's so incredibly tired that she can barely think straight.

“Maybe you should leave now, Doctor Griffin.”

For a moment, Abby looks like she wants to snap at Bellamy for interjecting, but with one more look at Clarke's stony expression she nods, turns and leaves. She's not quite out the door when Clarke notices her mother's impeccable posture sagging, a sure sign of defeat. It breaks her heart to see the usually so composed surgeon like this, but the moment she catches herself thinking that, Clarke gets angry at herself. Her mother does not deserve her pity. She sinks down on the edge of the bed and lets out a shuddering breath, and another that sounds a little less like a sob, and then a warm hand starts rubbing her back soothingly. Clarke takes a few more deep breaths, then gets up again and retrieves her bag from the chair by Bellamy's bedside, rummaging through it for her phone.

“I'll call Miller and tell him to be ready for the press inquiries.”

She starts going through her contacts for Miller's number, her hands shaking so badly that she almost calls random numbers a few times, but Bellamy stops her with a hand on her wrist.

“You need to call Wells. He shouldn't be blindsided by this. I'll text Miller.”

He's right, Clarke realizes – Wells needs to know about this development, needs what little time he can get to prepare himself. When her friend picks up the phone, Clarke fills him in on the situation in a brisk, matter-of-fact tone that reminds her eerily of her mother, and she thinks, with a flash of bitter amusement: _“Like mother, like daughter.”_ She hopes she's wrong, but she doesn't dare look at Bellamy as she thinks it. She focuses on Wells instead of lingering on her mother's visit, waiting for him to take in the information, maybe ask questions. It takes Wells a few seconds to find his voice.

“Where are you right now?”

“I'm at the hospital with Bellamy. If you hurry, you might make it here before it starts...”

“Probably not. I'll watch it from home.”

Clarke nods, not entirely reassured – she hates the thought of not being by her friend's side in an important moment like this. “Just don't watch it alone, alright?”

“I won't. I'll come by when it's over.”

Then he hangs up, and Clarke turns towards Bellamy, who has already finished informing Miller and is watching her closely.

“Clarke... If you want to go be with Wells, Miller and I can handle things alone for a while.”

She shakes her head. There will be time to tell Wells how sorry she is about dragging his father in front of a camera to admit to mass murder; time to figure out if she can forgive her mother; time to realize that she can now finally let go of her father. But for now, she still has a client – a friend – who needs her.

She switches on the television and goes to take her seat in the chair by his bed, but Bellamy pats the bed next to him.

“Come here.” As tempting as it is, Clarke shakes her head. She's not going to watch a press conference snuggled up next to her client on a hospital bed, even if she was kissing him just a few minutes ago. There needs to be at least some semblance of professionalism. Bellamy sighs. “Would you be more inclined if I told you that I need my political advisor close by in this important moment?”

She can't help but laugh. “God, you're manipulative.”

But she kicks off her shoes and settles on the bed next to him anyway, and to be honest, it actually does help calm her nerves to lean into his side and let him put his arm around her shoulder to pull her closer.

“I'm sorry about your mother. But maybe she's saying the truth? Maybe one day you could talk to her about it.”

Thankfully, Clarke doesn't have to reply, because on the television, the screen has just switched from the news studio to a view of Thelonious Jaha sitting in his office, facing the camera. Clarke and Bellamy listen breathlessly as he does exactly what her mother said, taking full responsibility for a cover-up that, just a few weeks ago, no one would have even believed them about in the first place.

When he's done talking, Clarke glances at Bellamy to see his eyes shining. She nuzzles into the hand he has draped over her shoulder but stays silent, waiting for Thelonious to finish answering the reporter's questions. Only when the program moves on to the next segment do they mute the TV and turn to look at each other.

Bellamy looks like he can't quite believe what just happened.

“Does that mean it's really over?”

“It really is. You brought them down, Bellamy. You forced them to tell the truth.”

“ _We_ did. Together.” He sounds about as choked up as she feels, but there's a fond smile on his face, and Clarke feels like her heart might just jump out of her chest. They actually did it. There will still be lots of stuff to deal with, most notably facing the press and possibly another hearing and Murphy's trial, and Bellamy needs to recuperate, and there's still a mountain of grief and anger Clarke will have to work through before she can ever talk to her mother again. But for now, she is determined for them to simply enjoy their victory.

That decision made, Clarke leans in for another kiss, one that is eagerly reciprocated, if slightly less passionate than she would like, but Bellamy is still recovering after all. And really, any kind of kiss is good. Anything with him is good, she thinks and threads her fingers through his hair, which is exactly as soft as it looks, and shivers in delight when his hand finds her hip, his fingertips brushing over her bare skin where her sweater rode up. God, she hopes the doctors are right about him making a speedy recovery.

This time, it takes a little longer before they're forced to pull apart again, interrupted by the arrival of their team. The moment Jasper and Raven see them, they both promptly start cheering so loud that one of the nurses pops in to shush them. 

They tone it down a little bit after that, at least until the nurse has disappeared again and Raven pops the champagne she has smuggled here in her backpack. Clarke climbs off the bed to give Wells a tight hug and feels relief course through her when her best friend hugs her back and tells her that he doesn't blame her for anything that's happening with his father. Before they can get really emotional, however, Wick shoves a cup of champagne in each of their hands and orders them to drink. Octavia bursts in with Lincoln in tow a little later, prompting Bellamy to raise his eyebrows questioningly, but Octavia shoots him a warning glare and he greets the Detective very politely. After they've emptied the second bottle of champagne, Clarke catches Monty sneaking a kiss from Miller out of the corner of her eye and meets Bellamy's eyes, only for him to waggle his eyebrows suggestively and make her laugh once more - something she can't remember doing this much in one day, but here they are, and things are good.

Looking at the increasingly rowdy group of people crammed into the hospital room, Clarke thinks that, all in all, she's made it to a pretty good place in life. She has her own little family, after all, and from the look of it, that family has grown since Bellamy first burst into her conference room and proceeded to drive her crazy. For now, Clarke thinks, she has every reason to be cautiously optimistic at the very least.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, everyone, this is the last official chapter. There's going to be an epilogue, because I can't quite let go of this story yet, but plot-wise, this is it. I'm a little nervous, as usual, because I feel like after all this build-up and drama, this isn't quite epic enough. But I hope you enjoyed it anyway.  
> For ultimate impact of the happily-ever-after feels, I recommend listening to "Gimme Some Lovin" by the Spencer Davis Group: "So glad we made it, so glad we made it...." Yeah! (Alternatively, Demons by Fatboy Slim and Macy Gray. Ok, that's enough music recommendations for now, especially since I have an entire playlist for this fic.)


	28. Epilogue, aka Not At All Necessary But Very Important Extra Fluff

Six weeks after Bellamy has been shot, Marcus Kane sits in a hotel room in D.C. and watches the first public appearance of the now-famous senatorial candidate and whistleblower after his release from the hospital, when reporters immediately crowded him on the short, slow walk from the hospital doors to his car. Flanked by Clarke and Octavia, he only gave a brief statement thanking people for their support back then, but today Bellamy officially announces that he will resume his campaign. He looks well-rested and ready to get back in the ring, and when Marcus spots Clarke, standing to the side of the stage and looking at Bellamy with a look of pride and affection, he feels confident that the candidate he placed his trust in will indeed have a shot at actually making a difference.

Just as he gets up to pour himself a glass of the excellent wine he has bought from his favourite bodega, his phone rings, and Marcus picks it up on the way to the room's small kitchenette.

The voice on the other end is familiar, but he hasn't heard it for so long that a little shock runs through him at the sound. He freezes in place before the open refrigerator, hand halfway to the wine bottle.

“Marcus, Clarke won't take my calls. I...” the woman on the other end of the line breaks off on a choked sob, continuing after a steadying breath. “I think I've lost her for good.”

After what Clarke has told him recently about Abby's part in Jake's death, Marcus is tempted to tell her that maybe she shouldn't have gambled with her husband's life then. But for all their differences, there's one thing about Abby Griffin that Marcus is sure about, and that is that she loved her husband; loves her daughter.

With a sigh, he closes the refrigerator door.

“Stay where you are, I'm coming over.”

He hears her sniffly “thank you” just before hanging up, and five minutes later, Marcus is in a taxi on his way to the Griffin's elegant townhouse, the unopened wine bottle on the seat next to him.

***

At a restaurant across town, Octavia and Lincoln are celebrating that he has officially closed their case, with the result that John Murphy is looking at a life sentence for killing Jake Griffin and Sterling and trying to kill Bellamy and Clarke. Thelonious Jaha could not be connected to Murphy's acts, but he has taken full responsibility for the massacre of unarmed civilians and is being prosecuted accordingly.

None of those are topics Octavia and Lincoln talk about that night. In fact, they don't talk much at all, and despite the restaurant's excellent food, they don't even stay for the main course before heading back to Lincoln's place, because a handshake is nowhere _near_ enough contact now that Lincoln doesn't need to worry about keeping his professional distance anymore.

By the time the sun rises outside the window and she drifts of to sleep, Octavia has decided that this is the man she'll spend the rest of her life with.

***

Meanwhile, at an airport somewhere in the Caribbean, Raven and Wick are bickering about whose job it was to bring sunscreen as they are waiting to board the tiny plane that will bring them to a small, virtually unknown island. After all, Raven did offer to whisk him away after they're done whistleblowing, and she figured it's time to deliver on her promise of “sex on the beach... and cocktails”, as she phrased it to Wick's great delight when she told him to pack this morning. Wick only took a moment to call her a “giant dork” before enthusiastically throwing two shirts and his bathing shorts into a duffel bag and declaring himself packed and ready, leaving them with plenty of time to waste in bed before they needed to get to the airport.

***

While Raven and Wick had no trouble getting some time off, for others on the team the renewed focus on resuming Bellamy's campaign means a steep increase in workload. Since political business as usual requires less hacking and more actual campaign managing, Monty has decidedly more free time than his newly-minted boyfriend, who is buried in strategy memos and press releases. But Nathan, it turns out, is not the only one who can be very distracting, and so Bellamy's career has to take a backseat for one more night to the fact that Monty is getting very serious about no longer putting work above his love life. Not when his love life seems straight out of a dream and Nathan is all too willing to be distracted.

***

And a few more weeks later, Clarke and Bellamy finally get to have their “proper” first date. After Bellamy's four weeks of mandated rest at home have passed, they've been dining out at a restaurant a few times already, followed around by paparazzi because Bellamy is still a hot topic and their romance has become the talk of the town. And while Clarke talks excitedly about approval ratings and public attention and garnering public sympathy with what she calls his “emotional narrative”, Bellamy is getting a little worried that she won't put up with this public scrutiny of her private life much longer. And so when his doctor finally clears him for physical activity, he invites Clarke over for a homecooked dinner, much to her surprise.

“You can cook?”

“I was a single parent for a while, remember? Of course I can cook.”

“So what will we be having – mashed potatoes? Mac and Cheese?”

Despite her teasing, Clarke comes over that evening and they are having Saltimbocca, the one simple but impressive staple of fine food Bellamy has perfected, and her reaction is exactly what he hoped for: She enjoys the soft veal and Parma ham in sage and white wine with rapturous moans and happy little sighs that are so distracting that he barely manages to eat his own portion.

Unfortunately, her distraction doesn't last long. By the time they've rounded out the meal with fruit and biscotti and he's putting away the dishes, she's already talking about the next steps of his campaign again.

“Clarke, you do remember the whole point of this was to have fun and not think about my campaign for once, right?”

“I just want it to go well. You deserve that seat, Bellamy, and I'll make sure you get it.”

His heart is swelling with fondness at her tone, at the knowledge of how fiercely she fights for him and for the things she believes in.

Still, she deserves a break. And because her expression remains concentrated and political consultant-y, he takes her hand, pulls her against him, and kisses her.

She responds immediately, putting her glass down so hastily that it teeters on the edge of the counter before smashing on the floor. Clarke ignores it, which gives him an incomparable sense of satisfaction. That she's such a workaholic control freak is part of why he loves her, but it's nonetheless reassuring to know that he can manage to distract her – it means he must be doing something right.

***

Clarke is not a spiritual person, but she has occasionally wondered what heaven looks like. Now she knows: Heaven is the most divine Saltimbocca she has ever tasted and Bellamy smiling at her over the dining table, kissing her in the kitchen, pulling off her dress in the hallway because he's too impatient to wait until they've made it to the bedroom to trail kisses down her neck.

They have spent a lot of his recovery time making out like teenagers, but so far, they haven't gone any further, and Clarke would be lying if she said that she wasn't getting really, really impatient. But between the knowledge that Bellamy was at the hospital for a check-up this morning and the way he makes short work of her dress, she guesses he's finally cleared for more than harmless kissing, and Clarke is more than ready herself.

She has just successfully tugged his shirt over his head and is pausing to appreciate the view, glorious despite the scarring on his chest, when his expression suddenly turns serious.

“You know, I think I'm gonna have to fire you again.”

“Oh really. And why is that?”

He kisses her once more, softer than before but just as insistent.

“Because you don't sleep with your clients.”

She smiles against his lips. “I might make an exception if you convince me.”

“And how could I do that?”

“You're good with words, aren't you?”

For a moment as he looks at her, she thinks he's actually going to give one of his infamous speeches right here in her bedroom. Then he grins mischievously, sheds his pants and sits down on the bed behind him, pulling her close to stand between his legs. Resting his chin just below her belly-button, he looks up at her.

“That's not the only thing I'm good with.”

His words send a pleasant shiver down her spine, and her knees are already buckling the moment he starts pulling down her underwear. When the thin barrier is removed and his lips touch her skin once more, making their way down from her bellybutton to the top of her neatly trimmed curls, Clarke is glad for the fact that his arms are locked around her legs and holding her up. It feels amazing, but only until it occurs to Clarke that maybe he should not be putting this much strain on his surgery scar, and then she feels guilty and worried and there's a brief flashback to gunshots and blood, and before she knows it, her hands are digging into his shoulders so tightly that he flinches and draws back to look at her with a worried frown.

“Clarke?” Through the sound of her blood rushing through her head, his voice sounds faint and far away, and her vision becomes blurry while she struggles to breathe through the tightening of her chest. “Are you okay?”

Clarke forces herself not to give in to the panic, which she thought she'd been getting under control over the past weeks. She tries to ignore the memories and focus on her present surroundings, on Bellamy's skin and muscle under her hands, the solid support of his arms, the warmth of his legs where they touch the side of her thighs: tangible evidence that her fears are unfounded, that he's safe. She repeats the thought in her head like a mantra, _he's alright, he's here, he's safe;_ and finally manages to take a long deep breath and smile at him.

“Yes. I'm okay.” She really is, Clarke realizes as her heartbeat slows down and the cold knot in her stomach uncoils again, and it's such a relief to say the words and actually mean them.

Unfortunately, Bellamy does not seem quite convinced, and Clarke can't say she blames him for being spooked – when she loosens her death grip on his shoulders, her fingernails have left crescent-shaped dents.

“We don't have to do this, you know. If you don't want to.”

“I do want to! I'm just worried that it'll be too much for you.” Her eyes are searching out his wound, almost expecting to see blood and swelling, but the scar, while still raised and red, looks like it's healing well.

“It won't be. I feel perfectly fine, my doctor has cleared me for physical activity, and before you can ask: yes, I specifically inquired if that includes sex. It does.” He takes her hand, which has been absentmindedly tracing the imprints she left on his shoulders, and holds it in his. “It's all up to you.”

“Well, who am I to argue with a medical professional?” Clarke grins, but she doesn't quite feel the levity she's trying to convey yet. “Let's just take it slow, okay?”

She straddles him and lets him pull her close once more, smiling when she notices that he too gets momentarily distracted by the delicious drag of the tips of her breasts over his skin. 

“Whatever you want,” is his belated reply, and what she wants is to bury her hands in his hair and tilt back his head to kiss him deeply, shivering in delight when his palms start sliding up and down her back in gentle, soothing motions, stoking the fire again that her brief moment of panic has doused.

Looking down at him now, it suddenly strikes her that they've been in this position before, what feels like ages ago, when she kissed him in her office the night Murphy first tried to shoot them and he pulled her into his lap, with what she imagines was the same eagerness to stop thinking and just _feel_ that was driving her too. The unusual angle at which she looks down at his face now is the same, the friction of his hips against hers, the tightening of his hands on her waist when she moves against him.

And yet, everything is different now. Because it's not adrenaline and anger bringing them together this time but something else, deeper and more durable but just as heady, and their touches are not harsh and frenzied but the languid, awed movements of someone savouring something very special and wanting to remember every second of it, to catalogue every sight and sound and texture and taste and smell. By the time he finally slips off his boxers, rolls on a condom and helps her sink down onto him, Clarke is all but ready to melt – until he moans out her name and the sound spurs her on once more. Using his shoulders for leverage, she speeds up her movements until she can feel him tensing underneath her and slips a hand between them to find her clit and bring herself over the edge with him.

She falls apart again with the same blinding force as the last time, but there's no awkward scrambling for clothes and dignity afterwards, no apologies, no regret. There's curling into each other under the blankets and dozing off to sleep; waking up again for a second round, talking and laughing and kissing until the early morning hours and remembering with relief that it's Sunday today and they've decided to actually take a free weekend for once, campaign be damned. There's sunlight and Bellamy's smile and the luxury of an entire day to spend like this, with nothing on her mind but him and the fact that he's here and he's safe and she loves him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is, the end of our journey. It ends with food and kissing (and stuff...), which I think all journeys should end with.  
> This epilogue took surprisingly long to write, because sex scenes are difficult (and this one isn't even that explicit!) and because I had to research recovery times for bullet wounds.  
> But enough rambling. For now I'll just say thank you all for sticking with me and this story, which took insanely long to find its end, and for commenting and cheering me on and being generally the best. Thank you.


End file.
